So, apparently the government’s decided to deploy military driving examiners to help tackle the UK’s driving test backlog.
Yeah, you read that right – deploy. Like it’s a proper op.
You can picture it now: “Stand by, lads, we’re moving out to the Basingstoke Test Centre. Aim is to secure two parallel parks and one flawless reverse-round-a-corner before last light.”
The Situation
According to the official announcement, the Ministry of Defence is sending 36 military driving examiners out to the nation’s test centres for one day a week to help civilians finally pass their tests. That’s roughly 6,500 extra tests a year.
In normal speak, that means some poor civvy in a 1.2-litre Fiesta is about to get marked by a bloke who’s spent years teaching squaddies how not to roll a wagon into a ditch.
Let’s be honest – if you’ve ever done driver training in the Forces, you know the score:
- First thing you do is spend 40 minutes trying to adjust the seat because the last driver was 6’4” and lived on Monster.
- You’re handed a clipboard that looks like it’s been through the Falklands, and told “don’t worry about the warning light, that’s always on.”
- You sign the work ticket even though you’ve not done your first-parade checks, because apparently the brake test “counts as one.”
- And the only time you ever saw the reversing camera was when it reflected the truck behind you right before impact.
So when the government says they’re bringing in military driving examiners to speed up the process, all we can think is… good luck to the civvies.
Military Logic in a Civilian World
The funniest part is, this isn’t even new for the military. We’ve been dealing with test backlogs since forever.
Remember waiting six weeks just to get on the D1 minibus course because the instructor was “on leave” (translation: hiding from you)?
Or trying to get a vehicle signed off that “needed a new light bulb” which meant an entire trip to stores, 14 signatures, and three days of tea and swearing before it got fixed.
Now the same blokes who passed us on our Cat C despite taking out two cones and a fence post are being trusted to keep the civilian driving system running smoothly.
If that’s not faith in the Forces, I don’t know what is.
The Troops React: ‘Squaddie Pass Incoming’
Unsurprisingly, the forces community has had a field day reacting to the idea of military instructors stepping in to help clear the civilian driving-test backlog. If there’s one thing soldiers know better than map-reading, it’s military driving standards – and everyone’s got a story.
One veteran joked that if someone needs 75 attempts just to pass their theory test, the issue might not be the examiner:
“At what point does someone ask whether the problem is the driver or the instruction?”
Others went straight for nostalgia. A few recalled the old-school approach where “training” basically meant being handed keys and prayers.
One woman remembered her mum in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force being shown how to drive trucks in North Africa with a “five-minute demo”. She even managed to lose a trailer in the desert without noticing, something only a military driver could achieve with confidence.
Plenty of serving soldiers admitted that the Army’s definition of instruction has always been… optimistic:
“Joined Battalion with no licence. Five days later I was somehow a ‘competent’ driver.”
Then there were the classics – the memes, the banter and the legendary squaddie pass culture:
“£300 a squaddie pass.”
“Jar of coffee pass.”
“Crate of dumpies for the QTO and you’re golden.”
Not everyone was convinced this partnership will raise standards. Some highlighted that military driving tests often produce functional drivers rather than skilled ones:
“The Army teaches you to pass a test, not drive.”
A few worried about what this means for the rest of the country:
“If the forces are doing it, everyone’s about to pass.”
“I’m terrified of the amount of squaddie passes that are gonna hit the roads.”
The motorbike crowd were quick to see opportunity:
“Christmas duty season is upon us — anyone want their bike licence?”
Others took a more cynical tone, questioning whether this would help with bigger problems:
“Not enough instructors or money to get lads qualified on Mastiff or Jackal, but now we’re teaching civvies? Backwards.”
And, of course, the dark humour resurfaced as always:
“Some people just shouldn’t be behind the wheel. If it took you 75 attempts, what are you identifying as – a cabbage?”
Still, despite the jokes, there’s a familiar undertone. Serving or veteran, nearly everyone agrees on one thing:
The Army delivering civvy licences may sound mad but if anyone can turn a five-day crash course into a national solution, it’s the squaddies who’ve been doing it for decades.
