Celtic Illumination, part 206, Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.

I had a good feed with the Marines for breakfast which went some way toward clearing my head although I could see they had the same problem with pillows as we did.  It was a little bit strange waking up as I did, dressed as an American Marine, it was like being in your very own movie.  Their Sergeant Major took care of me and I have never met a friendlier person.  I was given a tour of their set up, introduced to everyone we came across.  He then insisted on taking me to the medical centre where I could have my troublesome tooth looked at.  The dentist did not fill me with confidence as he walked in to the broom cupboard before finding the actual door to the surgery.

He was a young fellow and had a good poke about inside my mouth.  I suppose it was funny as although Danish he could speak English quite well, I think it was the accents that messed up our attempts at conversation, if you can imagine a red neck, a good ol boy and a Viking chewing the fat.   All we needed was a banjo, a canoe and a bow and arrow and we could have made another movie.  I thought his approach was a little extreme as he announced that he would uncover the nerve and leave it raw, so that it would deteriorate a little, which would allow him to remove it after a day or two.  He then handed me some pain killers which should not even be taken into a bar never mind taken with drink.  Something definitely got lost in the translation.

I called in to the squadron with the Sergeant Major and introduced him around.  The Sergeant Major asked if I could spend some time over with the Marines and Keith said of course I could.  I have to admit it was a really interesting couple of days and I was invited to fly in anything I wanted or get over to the ranges where I could play with all sorts of weapons. They were a great bunch of guys and nobody could see any reason for the two groups not to get together so in the evenings the drinking sessions grew longer and more serious.  One evening one of our Sergeants, a little Scottish fellow, stood up and started shouting.

We all wondered what on earth he was going on about so listened in to hear that he was accusing the Americans of being tight fisted.  It certainly put the dampeners on the evening and it was no surprise to notice most of the Americans slink away.  We had words with him as there was no call for what he had said and most of us thought no basis for him to make such a statement.  We were not aware that the Americans had really taken his words to heart.  It was the next evening when we arrived at the bar that we discovered just how seriously they took his comments.

I suppose the equivalent of our Rock Apes would be the grunts of the Marine Corps.  These guys were just muscle, they could lift things, or carry things, or hit things, and after trying to communicate with any of them you soon found out why they were called grunts.  It was quite an appropriate name.  Two of these grunts stood by the main door into the bar.  Two big black men about six foot six each and that’s just across the shoulders.  Each of us was presented with a large brown envelope and we were told to empty our pockets into an envelope.  We were then to seal the envelope and write our name, rank and number on the front of the envelope.  Only after we had completed this task were we allowed in to the bar.

I went in to find my friend the Sergeant Major at the bar.  He welcomed me and asked what I would like to drink.  I asked for a beer and he in turn asked the barman for a crate of beer.  I glanced around and noticed that each one of our chaps, already in the bar, had a crate of beer beside them.  The Sergeant Major gave me the crate of beer and said ‘When you have finished that, come and see me and I’ll get you another one.’  They were determined to prove that they were not tight fisted and bought every one of the squadron a crate of beer that night.  Of course none of us could finish a crate on our own, we would try, but no one was that good.

Everyone was swopping uniforms.   It started off with just hats and berets and ended up with everything being exchanged, trousers, shoes, boots.  The evening descended into the usual mayhem and as we were nearing the end of the detachment speeches were made and awards given.  I was not expecting anything and was quite surprised to be called out and presented with a set of silver wings.  I can’t remember why they were given to me but I do remember that the Sergeant Major asked me if I would come back to the states with them to become their president.  Quite an honour to be held in such high esteem, and it wasn’t the first time it had been suggested that I travel to America.  If you remember I was tempted with a free flight when I was stuck at Venice airport after my big stagger.  Again, it is only with hindsight that I can now see the double top secret cabal were tempting me, testing my resolve.

It was quite a wild detachment; even the aircrew were somewhat boisterous, playing skittles with the ground crew.  As they would begin to taxi out the pilots were swinging the aircraft around and trying to blow the ground crew off their feet, which with the state most of them were in wasn’t that difficult.  I had gone in to the hanger we were using as an engineering base one morning and all I could see were legs and feet hanging out of boxes.  These were large tri-wall cardboard boxes used for packing spare aircraft components.  The components had been taken out and the polystyrene packing chips remained and provided quite a comfortable and insulated form of bedding.

Keith and myself had managed to fulfil our little mission and I was glad to discover that he felt as bad about it as I did.  It felt as if we were cheating on our wonderful hosts but I suppose all we could do would be to quote Tennyson and say, ‘Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.’  It had been a really interesting detachment and apart from getting to know the Marines and the Danes I thoroughly enjoyed seeing that part of the world.  We only had a day or two to go when I was asked to report to Keith in operations.  I came in to operations still dressed as a Marine, as I had no air force uniform left, and was given the worst news possible.  A signal had come through from the squadron in Germany.   I had been promoted. 

Celtic Illumination, part 205, Cimbrertyren

We understood why we had been told to stay away from the three hundred and fifty American Marines on the far side of the airfield.  The odds of ten to one, as there were only thirty five of us, were not very favourable, but we had no intention of causing trouble so they were quite safe really.  The three hundred and fifty American Marines had been called in and told that there were thirty five 92 Squadron chaps on the far side of the airfield and they should stay away from them.  I think the Marines were a little bit confused.  I wasn’t confused, well; no more than normal, I was in pain.

I have to admit that I had a few interesting days as the mixture of pain killers and booze had the cold hard north of Denmark become rather mellow.  Someone had arranged a trip to the local Carlsberg brewery and they were more than generous.  We were given the ‘quick’ tour of the brewery and then led in to a reception room.  Crates of beer were wheeled in and boxes of gimmicky stuff.  Bottle openers, pens, note pads, more beer.  After the brewery trip we were all feeling mighty fine so decided to have a look around Alborg town itself.  We had been told that one of Denmark’s most famous sculptures was situated in one of the town’s squares.

It was the Cimbrian Bull and all we knew was that it represented their love of life and was paid for by the breweries.  The group I was with managed to find the statue and were quite amazed to discover that some other group, from the squadron, had beaten us to it.  The other group were not still around photographing or sketching the bull they had long gone. But the squadron had left its mark as stuck to the rather impressive pair of testicles on the bull was a squadron zap.  I later learned that they had used Araldite to stick the zap on which would take the towns cleaning department rather a long time to remove.

As a sort of public relations exercise we had to field a rugby team to play against Alborg town.  This was rather unfair as Alborg had their regular full team and we could only choose fifteen men from our small detachment of thirty five.  I do remember one scrum as we engaged I heard someone being sick.  As the scrum broke, probably so that we could compose ourselves and stop laughing, I noticed the referee.  Under one arm he had a box of fifty King Edward cigars and he was smoking one, while in his other hand he held a bottle of Glayva liqueur from which he occasionally took a slug.

It has to have been the most ridiculous game of rugby I have ever participated in.  Afterwards the party was totally mental.  Despite the language barrier the Danes joined in with the singing.  These ditties could be quite funny, depending on your sense of humour.  We would start one like a normal decent Sunday hymn.   ♫ There is a green hill far away without a city wall.  ♫  As you can imagine we are laying it on thick, hands clasped together, eyes raised to heaven.   ♫  Where our dear Lord was crucified he died to save us all.  Two. Three.  Four.  For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow….. ♫

Nobody was safe as far as squadron songs were concerned, especially God and Jesus.  One popular song went   ♫ Holes in hands, holes in feet, carries crosses down the street, has anybody seen J C?  Schubydoo, schubydoo, schubydoo.  ♫  That was the first verse, I shall not tell you what the second verse said, but the third verse was.  ♫  Four of bread, five of fish, feeds ten thousand piece of pish, has anybody seen J C?  Schubydoo, schubydoo, schubydoo.  ♫  We would probably then move on to the popular rugby song  ♫ Swing low sweet chariot, ♫ which would be sung with hand gestures and then repeated without words and hand gestures only.  Another popular song was ‘The alphabet’ which had us sing the alphabet, except we would have a swear word for each letter of the alphabet and a rhyme surrounding that word with each word connected to the next. 

Not the sort of stuff you would sing in church.  The Danes would have rewarded our efforts with rugby songs and ditties of their own however we discovered that the Americans did not have this tradition.  All they would do is shout “Hoo Rah!”  which didn’t rhyme, didn’t last very long and wasn’t that funny.  We ended up in some sort of night club, supposedly dancing the night away but the Danes do not seem to know how to jive, neither did I come to think of it as the combination of pain killers and drink had given me rubber feet.  We did seem to be very popular which may have been something to do with the amount of whiskey we were pulling from our kit bags.

I remember that I had split my trousers and had to take off my jumper and tie it around my waist to cover the tear.  We had been told that the nightclub closed at six o clock in the morning and most of us were determined to make it to closing time.  I began to flag and decided to make my way back to camp for a rest.  I had switched on my internal radar, that most drunks seem to have, and was wandering along.  I had crossed a long bridge and had left the city; it was dawn and quite a pleasant morning.  A taxi pulled up alongside me and asked where I was going.  I explained that I was going to the air base and the driver insisted that I get in and he would drop me by the gates as he was passing the air base.

He wouldn’t take any money and I was quiet impressed with the civility of the locals.   I managed to find our accommodation and hit the sack hoping that my pillow would be gentle with me.  That evening we all had to pull our best uniforms on and attend the formal function with the Americans.  The Americans looked like Christmas trees with all the gold and medals they wore.  We were quite drab compared to them.   I was standing chatting with two Marines; I think they were Master Sergeants.  Both of them carried about twenty medals each on their tunic.  We were laughing and joking with them about the collection of medals and suggested that they probably got them for eating cornflakes.  One medal I noticed had the number seven attached to the ribbon bar. 

I asked what this meant and was told that he had been shot down, while in a helicopter, seven times.  As you may imagine we scoffed at him and insisted that it was probably the number of times he had gone to the shops on his own.  He was quite upset with our mockery and ripped off his tunic and shirt.  This was not the old drunken preparation for a bar room brawl.  He asked us to inspect his torso which was criss crossed with scars which he insisted were the proof of his numerous encounters.  I know that I woke up the following morning in a tent with twenty American Marines.  That was the least of my problems because I wasn’t in my uniform; I was dressed as an American Marine.

Celtic Illumination, part 204, Semper Fidelis

I’m not a great one for the waiting and hanging around in Germany hoping for news from Biggen Hill was killing me, so I was pleased to hear that I was off on detachment again.  For a change this time we were not heading south for some sunshine we were heading north, right to the most northerly tip of Denmark, to Alborg.  We were going up to play with the Danish F 16’s. This would mean lots of meat balls, pickled herring and Akvavit.  The first bit of information that flew around the squadron was that a bottle of whiskey that we could buy for five pounds, tax free, in Germany, would cost thirty five pounds in Denmark.  We were only sending a small detachment up which would be led by Squadron Leader Keith Mac Burney.

There were quite a few meetings where we discussed what operations we would want to complete while up there.  This allowed the engineers to decide what equipment and personnel to bring and allowed me to order in specific maps and charts.  But there was more.  Keith and myself were called in to an office where a fellow in air force uniform briefed us.  Although he wore an air force uniform he didn’t seem to be in the same air force as we were.  As Keith and myself would have access to the safes, on our host squadron, we were asked to find out certain information that might be there.  I was being sent on a spying mission, exciting stuff.

I was a little disappointed that I would not be given an Austin Martin or a fountain pen that could turn in to a surface to air missile.  But then at the same time I was glad they didn’t give me a cyanide pill.  Keith and myself were the only two people who knew about the mission and we would occasionally joke about it.  It was certainly stimulating and became even more so when Keith told me that Alborg was the home of the Danish Special Forces.  You will understand that even now I cannot divulge what we had to do and if this blog stops being broadcast you can safely assume that some men will have been around to remind me about the official secrets act that I signed.

The day before we were to travel to Denmark one of my fillings fell out.  I immediately reported to the dental section to see if our dentist could repair my tooth.  I was given a temporary filling and told that the tooth would be properly repaired on my return.  You can imagine how impressed I was the following day as on take-off the temporary filling fell out.  We arrived in Denmark and were pleased to all be handed a beer before our security briefing.  It was a standard security and familiarisation brief although at one point the briefing officer pointed to an area marked on the map of the airfield.  He explained that there were three hundred and fifty American USMC Recon Marines camped there and we were to stay well clear.

I was sharing a room with a Welsh store man, I think there were about thirty five of us there and by the first evening we had already established a block bar.  There was a party in full swing.  It was quite a session and some of the Danes had come over to welcome us.  It was about midnight when I wandered off to the toilets to relieve myself.  It was just one huge bathroom with urinals, toilets, sinks and showers.  I was surprised to see my roommate, Taffy, having a shower.  “Oh man!” he gasped above the sound of the water.  “This shower is beautiful, it’s really, really, warm.”  As I was about to leave the bathroom I went over to stand beside Taffy who was still proclaiming that this had to be the best shower he had ever enjoyed.

Taffy had been slamming beers and schnapps down his throat all evening in the block bar so was very, very, drunk indeed.  “Taffy?”  I asked, as he allowed the full force of the water to splash across his face.  “Don’t you think you should have taken your uniform off first?”    “Oh bloody Hell man,” he sighed noticing that he was fully clothed.  “I wondered why it was so warm.”  I promise you for our first morning in Denmark every one of us, including the Danes, nursed serious hangovers.  That evening we went to the Danish mess and met our first American.  We had been getting into the swing of things for a couple of hours when a couple of American pilots came in.  They were still wearing their flying suits so it was quite obvious who and what they were.  We encouraged them to join in with us and as one of them said “I’ve met you Brits before, I know what you are like.” We sort of knew which one to focus on.

Americans love to be the world champion of anything and everything so they were impressed when we told them that we had the world’s wrist stepping champion with us.  They were very interested in how this was achieved and no doubt wanted to challenge the world champion.  Basically someone has their wrists tied together, initially with about twelve inches between them.  You then step through your arms and back out again.  For a young fit man this would be no problem so our American demands that we allow him to challenge our world champion.  A suitable length of rope was found and the competition began.  Our chap went first, to show the American how it was done.

The American steps through and declares that this is easy.  The distance between the wrists is now reduced and the person has to step through again.  Our chap does this easily, as does the American.  Now the wrists are tied tightly together and this makes the exercise a little more difficult.  Our guy completes the task and with a little bit of a struggle the American steps through so that his hands are now firmly tied behind his back.  The look on his face was hilarious when a brush shaft was produced and slipped between his back and his arms.  We hoisted him up and balanced him between two large bins so that he was suspended in mid-air.  He was a good sport and took it in the way it was intended.

Not every daft game went according to plan.  A few more Americans had joined us and a new game was developed.  How or why it came about I have no idea but basically we were diving through an open window.  The bottom of the window was about waist height.  With a short run, you had to duck down and then propel yourself through the open window without touching any of the sides.  As drink had been taken people were slamming in to everything and I have to admit it was quite a laugh.  That is until one of our fellows dived through the window perfectly.  Unfortunately he was not able to execute a forward roll to complete the manoeuvre.

Instead he went head first through a metal grating and smashed his lower jaw to pieces.  He was in quite a mess and we had to fight the Americans off as we waited for the ambulance to arrive.  They were all dismantling pens and opening knifes offering to give our chap a tracheostomy.  The medics patched our guy back together again and we didn’t attempt that particular game again while at Alborg.  Keith and I had been given access to the safes and were trying to be very casual in our approach to them.  And of course as we were 92 Squadron and had been warned to stay away from the Americans, we had challenged them to a games night in the mess.

Celtic Illumination, part 203, Biggles, Ginger, Algy and me.

I have to admit that some of the responses and comments I received for the previous couple of blogs have been interesting.  I am very pleased to see the level of engagement from you, the Illuminati, and as a benevolent master I shall try to be gentler when exposing you to the life and times of the world’s leading Master Candle Maker, the High Chief of the Clan O Neill and the true King of Ireland.  See?  Just by saying that, many of you are beginning to see the light, the proverbial penny has dropped.  Everything I have said is true, every event has happened, and as with most events, the explanation is simplicity itself.

Coincidence may be a word that some of you would suggest to explain random people from my past popping up in my hour of need.  A much simpler and you will have to agree a much more believable explanation is that these events were planned by the double top secret cabal who were steering my life towards greatness.  It was the double top secret cabal who had waited until they thought I was ready before sending me to Biggen Hill. Brown had been supervising my training at Watton.  As Watton had been populated with such a fine bunch of fellows Brown was the ying to my yang, he was the party pooper, the balance.  Thornton was in charge of my training at Valley, where like Prince William, I served on the rescue teams, but unlike William I was undercover.  I am sure that these two had been brought to Biggen Hill to see how effective their training had been.

Had I known these facts at the time life might have been a lot easier, but when you are being prepared for greatness, the more suffering you experience, the more  munificent you become.  I am sure that had I peeked behind curtains at Biggen Hill I would have found Bishops and priests watching my progress, waiting to see if their violent input had any effect on my personality.   You may think it strange that a King in waiting, like myself, would be sent to Biggen Hill but the OASC was, and could very well still be, a world leader in personnel selection.  Almost every professional selection process and interview technique comes from Biggen, which was backed up with teams of psychologists and trick cyclists, not to mention years of experience. If you were ever lucky enough to be assessed by Biggen you would know exactly not just what sort of person you were but what you were capable of.

There was an urban myth that every second you were at Biggen you were being watched and reported on.  However, as Saint Peter once said, or was it John Wayne, ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’  The pressure and stress of the process seemed to disappear on our final evening so my syndicate decided to go to the bar and have a small beer.  The small beer turned into eleventeen pints.  We had great craic and I honestly think it was because the experience was almost over and we had managed to stay the course.  We still had the final day to survive but I knew that the time proven method from the air force was to start that day with a killer of a hangover which would take your mind off the serious business you had to attend to.

I do remember that we were playing a game of Fizz Buzz, a drinking game that involved counting.  A person starts by saying the number one.  Moving clockwise the next person says two, then the next person three.  A very simple game you may think, even for a drunk, but now add the rules, the fizz and the buzz.  Any number with a three in it, or divisible by three, now becomes fizz, so instead of saying three, or six, or thirteen, you say fizz.  Got it?  Good.  Any number with seven in it, or divisible by seven, now become buzz, and; wait for it, the direction changes.  Mistakes are rewarded, or punished if you like, by taking a slug of your drink.  After about half an hour we had managed to get to nine when the orderly officer came in and found us rolling about having a great old time.  It was remarked upon the following morning as we lined up ready for our final day, but it was said with a smile and we were not asked to go to room ‘F’.

For my individual exercise I was given a scenario where I was on the mainland.  There was an island, connected by a road that could only be used at low tide.  I had a helicopter, some trucks and various other vehicles.  I was given the time of the tides, how much fuel I had, how much fuel each vehicle used, even the helicopter.  I was then told that there were casualties on the mountain on the island.  I had to rescue them.  You are given twenty minutes to work this out, but it doesn’t make one iota of difference what you plan, because what they want to see is how you will react under pressure.  I went in and sat down.  You’ve just spent twenty minutes working times, fuel usage and man power out and they give you a different start time so all your calculations are out.  They then lead you through their scenario watching and recording how you perform as you calculate and keep an accurate account of their plan in your head.

For the group exercises we sat at two long tables that were set out in a shallow ‘V’.  I learned later that even your position on this table indicated how good a debater they thought you were.  The stronger debaters were on the outside of the V while the weaker were near the apex.  We had been given a similar exercise except this time we were in charge of a small unit in a faraway land.  A Royal Naval vessel, with three hundred Royal Marines on board, has left a couple of hours ago.  You had two aircraft, trucks, various weapons, and fuel.  This time we had women and children thrown into the mix and the local militia was about to attack.  They had already taken out our transmitter so we couldn’t contact anybody for help.  All that was missing was a small bag of scientific instruments

Once again we were given twenty minutes to study the information and then they started, with me.  “What are you going to do?” they asked.  “First of all,” I said.  “I will fire up one of the aircraft and using the HF radio call back the marines.”  They didn’t ask me anything else after that, but it still wasn’t easy as I had to sit and watch a young civilian boy almost suffer a nervous breakdown beside me.  We had two aircraft with very similar names.  One could carry nine people and the other two.  This poor young boy had nine people in the two seat aircraft.  They didn’t correct him and none of us were allowed to speak.  They continued on until he had moved all the personnel out and then pointed out to him his mistake.  Of course the young fellow now realises that everything he said was incorrect but he can’t backtrack because they had moved on and started on someone else.

It was a very tense affair but at least it did seem to fly past.  Before we knew it we were being thanked for attending.  It was over.  I know I felt confused as I left Biggen and headed back to Germany.  Even back on the squadron J R and Tony were badgering me as to what had happened.  I was unsure.  The only positive fact we could be certain of was that I had remained for the whole assessment. It was nice to think that they had been through the exact same process that I had, all we had to do now was wait and that perhaps was the worst part of it all.

Celtic Illumination, part 202, Respect my authoritah!

Normally any claim or factual declaration, made on this Blog, is backed up with hard scientific fact and I think we now have happened upon an incident which will go a long way toward proving a statement I have made time and time again.  I have often said that there were only two positions in the air force, fast jet pilot and failed fast jet pilot. Rank was only one way of gauging how embarrassed you were at your failure.  A private or a TAG couldn’t care less, but a Wing Commander, without wings on his chest, would be the epitome of jealousy.  Here I was stood standing in the reception area of OASC at Biggen Hill between a fast jet pilot, Air Commodore D L F Thornton and a failed fast jet pilot, Wing Commander, I couldn’t care less what his Christian name is, Brown.

Thornton shook my hand and greeted me like a long lost friend.  How are you, where have you been, what have you been up to?  These questions were asked with real enthusiasm and interest.  He was smiling.  Thornton had been the Station Commander at Valley when I had been on Mountain Rescue.  He was the guy Chippy Prince and myself had met at a Mountain Rescue party and got absolutely steamboats with.  He knew all his Mountain Rescue guys.  He also knew I was the fellow who often cleaned the white lines outside the guardroom at Valley, on my knees, with a toothbrush, with a disciplinary Sergeant screaming at me.  Yet I think he knew that I was one of the good ol boys, there was no hidden agenda, what you see is what you get.

Brown on the other hand would now remind me of the cartoon character Cartman, from South Park.  A failed fast jet pilot, who would say, “Respect my authoritah!”  Brown didn’t understand that respect was earned, not given, and that worked both ways, as Thornton was now showing.  I have to admit I knew the line ‘Respect my authoritah’, but I have never watched the cartoon and had to Google it to find out the name of the character and the show.  I am pleased with my comparison of Brown and Cartman for Google tells me Cartman is aggressive, prejudiced, emotionally unstable and a person who exhibits psychopathic and extremely manipulative behaviour.  Sounds like Brown to me.

I have to say that it was delicious watching Brown’s face as Thornton and myself had a small chat.  Thornton then went away joking that if I needed any help, which he was sure I wouldn’t, to just pop along to his office.  Brown was waiting for an explanation and I didn’t give him one.  He shook my hand and wished me luck, but when he said “ I really don’t want to see you again,” I knew he was serious, he didn’t want to see me in room ‘F’ and he didn’t want to see me ever again in the world of the air force.  It was something I thought I could live with, although I knew if I was given a chitty and told to go to room ‘F’ I would go through the front doors and leave under my own steam, I wouldn’t give Brown the pleasure of seeing me fail.  It was only as I sat down I noticed thirty prospective candidates watching me and I suspected that most of them hated me.  If I was a friend of the Air Commodore then I wasn’t the one who was going to fail, for there was thirty one of us sat sitting there.  One had to go, or God forbid seven of us.

One guy was called away and the thirty of us remaining, breathed a little easier, but we were still we not guaranteed success.  The Squadron Leader who had interviewed me came in along with another Squadron Leader, they both carried clipboards, this was serious.  My Squadron Leader addressed the group and explained that he was about to read out a list of names and those people were to come outside.  My name was one of the six and the physical act of leaving the building scared me.  He gathered us together outside on the steps of the building and spoke to us as a group.  “Gentlemen,” he began.  I looked around to see who he was talking to, then realised it was me.  “It is my duty and my pleasure to inform you that you have passed the first part of the selection process.  If you would follow me we will kit you out for the second part.”

We were taken away and issued with overalls and coloured bibs with reference numbers.  The second part of the selection process consisted of practical group tests in the hanger, individual problem solving tasks and group discussion and problem solving.  With our kit issued the Squadron Leader again addressed us warning that we were about to undergo what would be the most physically and mentally demanding couple of days of our lives.  For some reason the fear of failure was now gone.  During the first part of the selection process there were so many points where you could fail and people did, approximately seventy so far.  We were advised to go and have lunch, the fun would start later.

We were taken in to the hangar, a full sized aircraft hangar that had been split into tennis court sized areas.  Along the edges were ‘hides’.  These were small cubicles where the syndicate would rest.  We would each lead one practical exercise and each exercise would be different.  One person would be called out from the hide and would present themselves to the Squadron Leader who had now been joined by the Wing Commander.  They would show you your exercise and then explain what had to be done.  You, as the leader were allowed three or four minutes to measure distances, see if various bits of equipment would fit and generally work out your method of completing the exercise.

Once you were ready, within the allotted time of course, you stood at the midway point and called your syndicate out from the hide.  They would line up along the start point and you would first of all explain the problem.  Now you would give your approach on how to solve and complete the exercise and then ask for any comments or suggestions.  This too was governed by a time limit and before you knew it you were into your exercise.  One I remember was quite simple really.  We had to carry a bag of delicate scientific instruments from one end of the course to the other.  The first thing you realised is that the bag of delicate scientific instruments is actually a kit bag full of wet sand.

The next slight problem is that we had to carry the bag of delicate scientific instruments while all six of us were standing on a plank of wood.  I am sure most of you are already thinking ‘That’s easy, I could do that.’  Well; I haven’t finished yet.  The plank of wood is sitting on half a dozen wooden rollers.  We can move the plank forward by all shifting our weight in one direction and all at the same time.  But the last person has to pick up the vacant rollers and pass them forward so that the lead person can feed them back under the plank.  Oh any by the way the plank has to go under various hurdles.  I’m sure that most of the people at Biggen Hill were quite clever but it surprised me that no one had come up with the idea of putting these exercises on video and adding a bit of Benny Hill music.  They could have made a fortune.

My exercise was to cross a river.  I had a selection of short planks that could fit between stepping stones.  I was allowed to see which would fit what before I called the remainder of my syndicate out.  I don’t think my syndicate completed the task, but not many of them were completed.  One of the most famous exercises was the swing, where the whole team had to swing across a chasm, with the bag of delicate scientific instruments.  There was a lot of laughter and nervous energy.  At one point I realised I was soaking wet with sweat.  We were all straggled out along the course, time was about to expire and the person leading the exercise decided that he would accomplish the mission by getting the bag of delicate scientific instruments across the finish line.  It took some effort, but he launched the bag which crossed the finish line within the allocated time limit but sadly without any of us connected to it.

Celtic Illumination, part 201, Dementia pugilistica.

It is normally during times of great stress, when people are under enormous pressure, that certain individuals will have an ‘eureka’ moment.  I, as you will remember, was being interviewed by a Squadron Leader and a Wing Commander at the Officer and Aircrew Selection Centre at RAF Biggen Hill, OASC.  I was under so much stress and pressure that I had my very own ‘eureka’ moment.  You are probably aware of just how lucky you are being a member of the Illuminati as you are constantly being given information that destroys most things you have been brought up to believe, such as the fact that pillows cause what is normally know as hangovers, not alcohol.  Well; stand by for another revelation.

I know that the two officers were probably sitting there saying to themselves that this fellow, me, was absolutely perfect for the air force and that they should probably just make me a Wing Commander and give me my very own Spitfire there and then.  Of course as a fully paid up member of the good ol boys I could only have a Spitfire with a go faster stripe, a sixteen foot long whiplash aerial and an eight track in the cockpit.  They probably thought I looked super cool and relaxed but what they were not aware of is that world war three, four and five were raging away inside my head.

You’ve probably heard various scientists and eminent professors’ blether on about how the brain has two sides, well; they’re wrong.  And I shall now prove it.  They say that every person has a left brain and a right brain.  The two different sides of the brain control two different types of thinking.  The left brain is the “logical” side while the right brain is the “creative” side.  Perhaps if they had said every ‘normal’ person has a left brain and a right brain, there may have been an ounce of truth in their statement.  Logical thought is supposed to come from the left brain while creative thought comes from the right brain and whichever side you favour, determines the type of person you are.

Well; I was sat sitting there being interviewed and the right hand side of my brain was very pleased with itself, as it had heard me answer certain questions in a most creative way.  My left hand side however was quite upset that I couldn’t even answer the simplest question such as what do the letters NATO stand for.  Unfortunately an argument started and the two sides of my brain were kicking lumps out of each other.  So; if both the left hand side of my brain and the right hand side were engaged in, what we could call, cranium to cranium combat, who was answering the questions, for I was still talking while all this was going on in my head?  Ergo, that’s Latin by the way which roughly translated means to prove, in a conclusive and scientific way, just how correct I am, there has to be a third side to the brain, there may be a fourth, I am not sure.  So; if we have left and right, why not add front and back to the categories?  And please let’s not have any comments along the lines of me talking through my back side.

Perhaps this is not the place to discuss serious scientific topics so I’ll write a proper paper and submit it to Warrenpoint University after tea.  After forty five minutes the interview was over and I was led away from the interview room.  I was punched drunk; I really was stunned, caught in the proverbial headlights of, ‘What the feck just happened there?’  I returned to the reception area and sat myself down.  Everything was grey; I was unsure how I had performed.  There was a mixture of wishing I had said certain things differently, of being pleased with some things I had said and of total disbelief at how fecking stupid I had been in other cases.

They had to shout twice when they called me for my medical.  I was measured and prodded and pulled and poked and weighed.  My eyesight was checked, they were very thorough and before I knew it I was sat outside waiting.  There was one number prominent in most people’s heads and that was if you were successful, with the first part of the selection process, you would be invited to stay and undergo the second part.  This would be approached in groups of six or as they called them ‘syndicates’.  I didn’t concern myself with how they could be so number specific with their results, but could see that they had a target to meet and some people would, or could, be very close to the success or failure line, if they only selected in multiples of six.

I was told that the president of the medical board wanted to see me and I hoped that I wasn’t going to be one of the borderline casualties.  I went in to find an old duffer in a charcoal grey, pin striped, suit.  I sat down before him.  “We would prefer people to be spot on with their weight,” he began, only glancing at me.  The old alarm bells were ringing away, on every one of the sides of my brain, as he wouldn’t establish nor maintain eye contact with me.  “You are at the upper end of the weight range we would be willing to accept for aircrew training so I am a bit concerned about you.  I mean do you think you would be able to lose half a stone before your aircrew training would begin?” 

“You haven’t even looked at my file, have you?” I said, wondering which side of my brain had come up with that.  It was a logical statement and it was also quite creative, as he would now have to look in my file.  There was also an Irish flavour to it, as in a challenge, looks like I was talking out of my back side again.  The president of the medical board opened my personnel file that sat in front of him on his desk.  He drew his finger down the first page, closed the file and signed my form.  “As far as I am concerned,” he said.  “You are air crew fit, you have passed the medical.”  I wandered back to the reception area.  I knew I had passed the medical.  I was still at Biggen Hill, so there was a good chance I had passed the tests and a decent chance I had passed the interview, but you could never tell.

The reception area was a large room.  In one corner high on a wall was a television that had been playing a continuous loop of air force promotional adverts, a bit like preaching to the converted if you ask me.  The television was now showing some cricket match.  The chairs were arranged in an oblong or square formation.  I knew that everyone in the room, every candidate, was counting how many people were in the room and dividing that number by six.  I stood behind a line of chairs and let my mind unwind.    There was just so much going on in my head I didn’t notice a fellow come in behind me and walk up to stand beside me.

“What’s the score on the cricket?” he asked, and I turned to see the person I detested most in the world.  It was Wing Commander Brown from Watton.  One of the useless air traffickers who had messed me about, the one who had eventually passed Andy Swetman for aircrew, the one who had told Tim Lort he wouldn’t promote him to Corporal, never mind allow him to be assessed for aircrew.  This was the rugby referee who would warn me, and me alone, before rugby matches, that he would officiate at, that he was watching me.  We both looked at each other and understood exactly what we thought of each other.  “What are you doing here?” he asked, then added, while holding out his hand.  “Sorry that’s a stupid question.”  He went on to explain that he was in room ‘F’.  That’s ‘F’ for failure. 

Anyone who failed, at whatever point during the assessment, was sent to room ‘F’ where this Wing Commander Brown would inform them that they had failed and what bus they should catch.  The perfect man for such a horrible job.  We both faced toward the television set standing in silence, we had nothing to say to each other. We heard the double entrance doors behind us swing shut and we both turned to see who had entered.  All I saw was a pair of shoulders with so much rank I froze.  I turned back while the person who had entered came and stood on the other side of me.  It was the guy in charge of OASC Biggen Hill, Air Commodore D L F Thornton.  God himself was standing next to me.

The Air Commodore leaned forward and said to Wing Commander Brown, while nodding toward the television.  “What’s the score?”  “Sorry sir, I don’t know,”  said Brown.  “I’ve just come in.”  “Oh,” said the Air Commodore, adding. “Well, there’s no point in asking Paddy, he hates cricket.”

Celtic Illumination, part 200, Chocks away.

It seemed a bit daft that I would drive to Liverpool and five days later return to Germany so that I could prepare myself to fly back to the UK.  But I suppose the moment you declare yourself to be an international criminal these things happen.  Or as they often say, ‘You shouldn’t have joined up if you can’t take a joke.’  With the family back in Germany I began my final preparations for Biggen Hill.  There wasn’t much more I could do apart from keep the physical training up as most people, like myself, believed the old adage about a fit body producing a fit mind.  I had allowed the air force to arrange my trip to Biggen which I regretted.  It was nice to be looked after and to be ferried from one point to another.  It was just that there were so many bloody points.

I think I flew in to Luton, and then was driven to Hendon in London.  That was on the Friday.   On the Saturday I escaped and went over to Brixton and relaxed with Mervyn and Willie.  It was good to catch up with the guys and we did enjoy a couple of beers although Mervyn wanted me to try out his new favourite cocktail which was a mixture of crème de menthe and vodka.  There was an unwritten rule in the air force that the night before an exam you would not study but get completely legless.  I for one was not going to break with tradition, although I wasn’t really starting until the Monday.  On the Sunday I dragged myself back across London from Brixton to Hendon, collected my kit and made my way to Biggen Hill, which involved a succession of buses, trains, tubes and taxis.

I was shown to a six man room and settled in.  There was a briefing pack so I quickly familiarised myself with the important places such as the bar and the mess.  By early evening the room was fully occupied, in fact the whole block was fully occupied.  A small number of us were already serving in the forces but most were civilians.  Despite the fact that I had already been through the selection process before, and successfully I may add, I was still quite nervous.  I suppose when you are seventeen you don’t have the weight of the world on your shoulders.  That evening I went for a wander knowing that this was the actual heart of the air force.  From the spitfire guys and the battle of Britain even to 92 squadron itself, Biggen Hill was certainly an iconic place.

I later learned that there are a couple of books about the selection process that describe the process in detail and suggest certain approaches that may encourage success.  I just kept my mind open and presented myself first thing on the Monday morning along with perhaps one hundred other hopefuls.  First of all we were registered and then poured in to various classrooms.  I do remember that they fed us exam after exam.  They were all multi choice tests but what they would do is say there are fifty questions and you have seven minutes to complete them.  So before you open the paper you are calculating just how long you have for each question.  Well; I was.

So, you think right, I’ve got eight point four seconds per question.  There is a huge clock on the front wall on which they have stuck a large dayglo orange pointer.  They adjust the pointer and then tell you to start.  When the minute hand and the pointer line up with each other your time is up.  Of course half your time is now spent watching the clock and thinking, okay I’ve completed ten questions, in seventy seconds, so I’ve got three hundred and fifty seconds left for forty questions which gives me eight point seven five seconds per question.  By the next calculation you attempt to make you begin to confuse yourself.     I know that we were expecting test papers on mathematics, physics and English but one on languages came and one on geography.  The guys in charge told us to complete them anyway.

Lunch time was upon us in the blink of an eye and most of us were quite silent as we tried to drag our minds back across the papers we had completed and wonder how we had got on.  After lunch we again were in classrooms and I found one of these tests quite funny.  Three was a screen at the front of the room.  On it was four columns, displaying icons like a fruit machine.  Across the centre was a thick black line.  Each column moved from top to bottom.  At the top were four boxes, one above each column and each box displayed an icon, which changed.  We each had a large metal box, connected to a computer they told us, with four switches in a line.  These were heavy industrial switches.

When an icon passed through the thick black line, that matched the icon in the box above the column, you pressed the corresponding key on your box.  So try to imagine fifty guys sitting watching this huge fruit machine display, all waiting for a matching pair to appear, when somebody clicks their switch.  Forty nine guys now wonder what they have missed.  Someone else clicks and complete mayhem then erupts as you sit there wondering what on earth is going on.  It was funny to think about it later on but at the time it was seriously frustrating.

After lunch most of us would have gone back to our room and we may have noticed that one of the beds was empty.  On the Monday evening it was quite obvious that more beds were unoccupied.  Whether or not this was another method of putting us under pressure I’m not sure, but if it was it certainly worked, for you were more than aware that at any moment you could fail and be sent back to your unit.  We didn’t actually see people leaving, just the spaces they left behind.    On the Monday evening my head was a complete mess and I just collapsed on my bed.  The following day was the interview and I don’t think anyone was looking forward to those.

We all gathered in the large foyer and some began to go for medicals while others were being interviewed.  Two people would interview you, a Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader.    A Squadron Leader came into the reception area and called my name.  I went over to him and we left the area.  He stopped outside an office and pointed at a podium, telling me to place my educational certificates before him.  If they were not in order I would be on my way.  Thankfully he accepted my certificates and we went in to the interview room.  I learned later that even the way they had set the room out was planned.  They had plenty of room but I was sort of jammed in, again, psychologically putting me under pressure.

They introduced themselves and explained that one would ask a question while the other would take notes and they would take alternate turns.  Off we went.   At one point I heard myself answer a question and was actually wondering where the answer had come from.  It really was strange.  They had asked me to imagine that I was flying along and saw a submarine pulling away from a dock.  I had fired a missile at the submarine and I had destroyed it.  Two hundred people had died as a result, how did I feel?  I said that I would probably feel positive, although was really thinking of the line from Alice’s Restaurant, where he sings, “I wanna see blood, guts and gore with veins in my teeth, I wanna kill!” 

The next fellow then says, “Right, their air defence has managed to hit you with a missile.  You’ve banged out and are floating down on your parachute.  You can see three or four hundred people coming towards your landing zone armed with pick axes and shovels, the relatives of the sailor’s you have just killed.  From the other side, the local militia are racing toward your landing zone armed to the teeth and they are not happy because you have just killed two hundred of their friends.  You have one pistol and twenty rounds of ammunition.  What are you going to do?”

That’s when I heard myself say.  “I would hope that the training I would have received for such a situation would see me through.”  I know I spent the next few moments wondering where that answer had come from.  Then one of them asked, ‘Do you know what NATO is?’  ‘Of course,” I laughed, adding.  “I’m in it.”   “So what do the letters NATO stand for?”  Next to the question asking what your name was, this had to be the easiest question ever.  That’s when my brain froze.

Celtic Illumination, part 199, the Olympic games.

You may think it strange that I was trying to deceive the air force and was being supported in this deception by my boss.  The air force operated on two levels.  The first level was the professional, black and white, level where people reacted to facts and figures, there was no personality involved.  This would occur when you were dealing with people, outside your squadron or unit.  When dealing with your own people you would always be flexible, or as people might say, give someone the benefit of the doubt.  We knew that the SMO would react to the facts and figures.  If I were one single pound over the recommended weight, then my chances of going to Biggen Hill would be scuppered.  All we were doing was stalling for time, so that when I actually presented myself, I could be sure that I was the perfect weight.

J R and Tony knew not just the physical effort I had put in to all the training but they had invested in me as well, with time and effort.  They were also aware of the useless air traffickers who had prevaricated every time I had applied for aircrew.   All I had to do was stay off the radar for my remaining ten days in Cyprus.  Luckily this was way before the days of computer recorded access points.  We would have to sign with our name, rank and number for meals and for transport and for most other amenities too.  There was an easy way around that slight problem.  Luckily, most systems are, or were, flawed.  You would be handed a clipboard with a signature sheet and asked to fill out your details.  You were never asked for your identity card so that the details you entered could be checked to be true. 

To submit false details would eventually be flagged up and that really is your only problem as you don’t know how often the details would be checked, if at all.  So all you had to do was copy the details of the second person on the list.  With your own handwriting being different, your entry would not stand out, and assuming that the second person on the list, who had entered their details which you were now copying, was telling the truth, then no alarm bells would ring.  We were used to having false names on detachment but these were usually comical and not intended to deceive anyone.  It was much easier when the majority of the squadron left to return to Germany.  There were only a handful of us left in Cyprus.  Unfortunately among this handful were the characters Dave Magee, Jimmy Orr, John Roe and Taff Howells.

These four would have to be the maddest and baddest characters in the whole of the air force.  The detachment had seen some particularly extreme incidents which did have their humorous side. One squadron session got so out of hand that the police actually sent dog units in to the mess to try and calm things down.  Thankfully with the majority of the guys away this group of nutters were quite well behaved.  I thought I would be pleased to climb in to the rear of a Hercules to return to Germany, but when I realised who I was with, I wondered if we would actually make it back.  Normal people might get worried if they were travelling in an aircraft and warning claxons honked and lights begin to flash.  I simply followed procedure and strapped myself in for a possible crash landing.

Magee and the gang were smiling, so I wasn’t worried at all as the crew of the Fat Albert went through their drill.  Apart from their technical knowledge, which I had to admire in a strange sort of way, their timing was spot on too as we were now diverting in to Athens.  I had always wanted to go to Greece ever since as a child in Belfast we would be invited in to the neighbour’s house to watch a slide show of her latest travel adventure.  I wondered if the birthplace of civilisation would be ready for this crowd of reprobates.  We landed safely and unbelievably were told that we would have to wait till the following day for a spare part.  Somehow or other I expected the technical problem might just fix itself the following morning, my main concern was to make it through the night unscathed.

We were allocated rooms in a small hotel and then instructed to meet at a restaurant where a meal would be provided for us.  After this the evening descended in to mayhem.  There was an awful lot of wine and Ouzo, plates getting smashed and laughter.  I felt it a shame that such an opportunity to explore Athens was lost to me, but with that crowd I should have expected no less.  The behaviour was rambunctious to say the least and the funniest event of the evening was Taff Howells trying to secure the services of a Greek lady of the night with his Barclaycard.  Whether he was serious or not we will never know for he wasn’t successful in his pursuit.   He did manage to buy a load of booze which like a magnet had us all in one large hotel room.

We were right on the harbour front and as it was a warm night the windows were wide open.  Someone pointed out the luxurious yacht that was moored directly opposite the hotel and then another person wondered if they could throw an ashtray and have it land on the deck of the yacht.  As you know we were a competitive lot so, when we ran out of ashtrays basically anything else that wasn’t nailed down was launched from the hotel windows toward the yacht. The following morning we climbed on the coach to return to the aircraft. The Fat Albert crew were already on the coach and asked about the debris that littered the road and yacht.  We explained that they had held one hell of a party on the yacht the previous evening and we poor little lambs couldn’t get much sleep because of the noise.  This is why we all looked so dishevelled.

As sure as night follows day, the aircraft healed itself and we were soon airborne again and heading for home.  I hoped that we would make it this time but the troops were partied out and we were soon shivering in the cooler air of Germany.  It was late evening when we landed.  We were all tired and looking forward to getting in to our cars and heading to our respective homes.  The following day I would be driving to Liverpool to collect Irene and the boy child. I hoped I would be driving to Liverpool the following day, for as we entered the terminal, I spotted some military police watching us.  We kept our distance from them, as you do, as we waited for our bags to come in.

Having collected our kit we began to leave the terminal but two coppers came over to me.  Once they had established that I was the person they were after they asked me to follow them to an office.  I promise you, my mind was in overdrive trying to figure out what I had done wrong this time, or was being accused of doing wrong.  One copper began dialling a number on a telephone, waited, then introduced himself and said “We’ve got him for you sir.”  He handed the telephone to me and I said “Hello?” as you do.  When I heard the voice say “Hello mate,”  I relaxed a little, for it was my immediate boss Tony.  “I see you managed to remain undetected then,” he said, and I laughed.  “Listen,” he said.  “I know you’re off to the UK tomorrow to get your family, so I wanted to tell you the news before you left.”  “What news?” I asked.  “I wouldn’t unpack my bags if I were you mate,“ says Tony.  “You’re off to Biggen Hill in a fortnight.”

Celtic Illumination, part 198, On a wing and a prayer.

Every day I would have to submit a report on how combat ready the squadron was.  There were three stages of combat readiness, non-combat ready, limited combat ready and combat ready.  These figures would be submitted along with statistics on our aircraft along similar lines.  This would allow command to see, at a glance, exactly what firepower they had at any one time.  Someone kept telephoning me every day and asking me how many aircraft we had and how combat ready were we.  As I was already submitting the combat statistics over a secure signal network I gave a false figure.  On the first day I was rather mischievous and ran off whatever aircraft I could see, so it was something like ten Phantoms, two Buccaneers, one Vulcan and a Gazelle.

I had scribbled it down on a notepad as I was talking and thought no more about it.  The following day the same person telephoned and asked again for our status.  I added one to each aircraft type and hung up.  This began to happen every day and as the person, a young female, on the other end of the telephone didn’t question the madness of it all, I continued adding one to each aircraft type every time she telephoned.  Meanwhile we were making good progress and every crew had been declared combat ready.   The SENGO was called and when he came in to operations J R informed him that we had completed our operational task and that we could now start taking the ground crew flying. 

The SENGO began to make a list of names when J R pointed at me and said ‘Put him on the top of the list.’  I was sent off to flying clothing and kitted out.  On returning to ops I found out that I was to go up with Roy Lawrence.  Roy took me to the briefing room and asked if there was anything I would specifically like to do while airborne.  I said I would love to go supersonic and of course fire the guns.  After all I was a boy.  Roy gave me a safety briefing, emphasising the importance of following his instructions, especially if he ordered me to eject.  I had no intention of getting a Martin Baker tie, if I could help it.  It was quite exciting walking out to the aircraft and climbing in.  The engineers were having great fun, asking if I had enough sick bags or did I know which end was the front.

We taxied out as one of a pair and while sitting at the end of the runway the other aircraft informed us that we had a barber’s pole showing.  Basically a red and white pipe showing that there may be a problem with the wings, but quite common and it should rectify itself as we got airborne.  However Roy still instructed me that I should prepare to eject should the situation worsen.  Thankfully the problem did sort itself out and we climbed away from the ground.  It’s quite different from flying in an airliner.  You are very aware of the power but it’s much smoother.  I had quite a lot of experience in the back seat from my times in the simulator, so was familiar with the environment.

Roy found the Canberra and we began our attack.  As we closed in on the banner I could only just see the Canberra pulling away from us.  Roy was giving me a running commentary on what was happening and when he informed me that we were about to open fire I was disappointed that my view of the target was terrible.  As the cannon, underneath the aircraft erupted you could feel it through your feet and hear it as well.  Roy pulled away and came in again for a second run, again letting the Gatling cannon rip.  We then came away and circled high above as the other aircraft had two runs on the banner, so I had a great view of what we had just completed.

We then left our sister ship and headed out across the Mediterranean.  Roy  dropped down close to sea level and, as the good ol boys would say, floored it.  Despite the fact that I could see our speed climbing on the dials before me, I knew to watch the leading edge of the wings, for as we crossed, or broke, the sound barrier we would get a grey mist shimmering along the front of each wing.  It was an amazing thing to see and then Roy pulled the stick back.  I had three mirrors in front of me, something like the rear view mirror you would find in a standard motor car.  All I could see in the mirrors was the Island of Cyprus grow smaller by the second and then you think ‘Oh shit! We’ve got to come back down again.’ 

You’ll never find anything like that in any fun fair or even come anywhere close on a computer simulator.  Roy performed a variety of manoeuvres as we descended, from rolling to flying upside down, all exciting stuff.  We then enjoyed a lazy, and much slower flight, around the coast and it was quite interesting to fly past Paphos , Aphrodite’s rock, the cliffs and submarine point.  As you may have expected every time we checked in with the squadron we were getting plenty of Falcon two six nine calls.  We landed and Roy took my photograph beside our aircraft.  I was extremely pleased with the flight but knew that I would not want to be a navigator.  I knew that I would have to be in control, but I also knew that I still preferred helicopters.

Back in operations everyone wanted to know what I thought about the flight and I didn’t want to appear ungrateful.  I felt strange talking about my experience because I found sitting in the Phantom to be a very erotic sensation.  I was surprised to hear that this was very common, that the close confines of the rear seat were in some deep psychological way connected to the womb.  Please don’t ask me to explain it; I didn’t understand it when it was explained to me.  I changed back into my ill-fitting uniform and returned to operations.

J R wanted to know if I had been submitting our combat readiness to command every day.  I assured him that I had and showed him the file that contained all my signals.  He was confused because the commander of the British forces in Cyprus couldn’t understand the statistics he was being presented with every morning at his briefings.  As I was able to show that I had sent the daily signal, to command, he understood we had fulfilled our duty but couldn’t comprehend how the local commander was getting these strange figures.  I pretended to be confused too.

It was at this point that Tony Bown came in with another signal.  “Biggen Hill want to know your weight.”  I hadn’t been weighed since arriving in Cyprus but it was obvious to everyone that I had lost a good amount of weight.  They had asked the senior medical officer, the SMO, in Cyprus to weigh me and report my weight back to them.  If I was within their guidelines I would be called forward to Biggen.  I made my way over to the medical centre wondering how to get around this, in case I was too heavy.  I waited in reception and when I saw a young fellow, who I would say was borderline geek, if not full blown geek, I approached him and asked if I could get weighed.

He took me to a room and showed me the weighing scales.  I had never seen a set like these before in my life.  You actually sat in a seat and the reading was taken from behind, so you couldn’t actually weigh yourself.  I sat down and being terrified, that I could be a pound or two over the limit, placed my right toe on the ground and pushed for all I was worth.  I think I my perfect weight was meant to be approximately one hundred kilograms.   This fellow announces that I am ninety five kilos.  “Great.” I say, leaping off the scales.  “Can you make a note of that please.”  “Why should I make a note of it?” asks the young man.  “Because,” I say, as I am slipping out through the door.  “The SMO wants to know my weight.  Can you give it to him please” 

Tony and J R were pleased with the weight but the SMO wasn’t, he wanted to weigh me himself.  I explained to both Tony and J R what had happened and they wondered how we could get around it.  Their idea was that I should hide.  The detachment was nearly over; I had ten days left in Cyprus, because I was on the rear party.  If I could remain in Cyprus for the next ten days, without being spotted, we might get away with it.  The SMO would have to submit the weight I had given.  Luckily I was used to giving false names, but I wasn’t used to being somewhere really, really, nice and not wanting to be there.

Celtic Illumination, part 197, On the count of three.

Sorry about this but I’m going to have to go off topic for a few moments.  The Celtic Illumination Blog has received another award, ‘The Versatile Blogger’ award.  The more alert of you Illuminati will, or might, say “Ah, well done, award number three,” and you would be correct, except it is number four, as I never bothered to mention number three, ‘The Liebster Award.’  So before you all go looking for a length of rope and a suitable tree, please hear me out.  To have someone comment or nominate you for an award, or even present you with an award, is a great honour.  It means that they have read the Blog and have liked it enough to place a marker on it, and I really do thank you for that.  And what is a Blog if it doesn’t have readers?

Unfortunately there is an established etiquette that goes along with getting an award for your Blog.  Firstly I have to display the badge on my page, which I don’t really know how to do, which is why I was keeping quiet about number three, but I realised I would be letting my readers, you, the Illuminati, down.   I am supposed to put a back link in to the Blog that recommended me, something I am not really sure how to do, but will try.  The request from the latest award, The versatile Blogger, from DESTROY ALL FANBOYS,   http://fanboydestroy.com/  (I hope that is the correct way to put a link in) was to display the award on my Blog, not sure how to, but will try.  Announce your nomination and thank the Blogger, done.  Present 15 deserving Bloggers with the award.  Might have a slight problem with the links but will try.  Link your nominees in the post and let them know of their nomination with a comment, I think I’ve covered this with my problem with links.  The final request is that I post seven interesting things about myself.  Only seven?  

A quick glance at the file where I keep my Blog archive, shows that to date I have produced two hundred and thirty thousand words, equivalent to approximately eight hundred and fifty pages, if it were a book, and all about me, me, me.   Is it not interesting enough that I am the world’s leading Master Candle Maker, the high Chief of The Clan O Neill and the true King of Ireland?  Is it not interesting enough that I am an international criminal, have the loveliest legs in Ireland and once thought I was Jesus?  Is it not interesting enough for me to say that by being born with six fingers on my left hand was not a disfigurement but a mark of God?  So this little side track is to thank all those who have taken the time to select me for awards, to explain that I really do appreciate them and do want to respond correctly to them but am technically, a little behind the drag curve, shall we say.   My attempts to change the look of the Blog so that I can show these award badges might result in a few hiccups, so please bear with me.  Otherwise as we can now officially acknowledge and celebrate award number four, let’s have a party.

And believe it or not it was party time in Cyprus. (Hope you liked what I did there.)  It was time for the detachment squadron party which was to be held at the sailing club.  There were three coach loads of us who descended on the sailing club.  The first two coach loads had arrived and the guys were trying to consume all the free food before the aircrew came.  It really was a lovely setting and a very warm night.  John Zammo and myself were stood standing at the bar, as you do, when we heard a coach pull up behind the bar.  We informed the others that the aircrew had arrived and there was a certain hush that descended on the atmosphere.  It didn’t dampen the mood, we were just curious as to how they would present themselves.

We could hear the odd cackle and laugh coming from them but no one had appeared around the corner and we were wondering what was going on when we heard someone shouting.  It was military flavoured shouting and was someone bringing men to attention.  We all listened with great interest and were rewarded by seeing J R march all the aircrew around the side of the bar and onto the beach.  As they passed the bar, Squadron Leader Keith Mac Burney, broke ranks and ran over to John and myself, where he slapped his wallet on the bar counter, in front of us, and as he left to return to the marching column of men, shouted.  “Get me a brandy sour and get yourselves a drink too.”

John and I didn’t need much persuading and delved in to his wallet, but kept watching J R and the aircrew wondering what on earth they were up to.  J R marched the guys right into the sea, up to about waist height, ordered them to about turn and brought them out of the water.  It was quite a giggle and as Keith Mac Burney dripped and squelched his way up to the bar and his waiting brandy sour, he informed us that most of the aircrew knew that they would have been thrown into the sea at some time during the evening, so they thought they might as well get it over with and enjoy the evening, free from worry.

It was a cracker of an evening.  John and I stole, sorry, borrowed, one of the buses and went for a spin around Akrotiri.  It was great fun; I was driving and John was operating the lights.  Well; when I say he was operating the lights, he was flicking all the switches trying to get the headlights to work but he couldn’t, so we settled for the inside lights of the bus.  At the end of the evening it was so warm that the guys decided that they would not sit inside the coaches as the air conditioning was non-existent so they all sat on top of the coaches.  The only person worried was the driver.  The first stop was the air crew accommodation and John and myself were invited to stay for a small sherry.  Well; Keith Mac Burney said. “Oi! Get your arse of the bus and come and have a drink with us.”  Which I think correctly followed all the required etiquette and procedure.

A fire was lit outside their accommodation and we all sat around drinking brandy.  It was one of those sessions where you just simple pass out or fall asleep. All I knew was that I had woke up in my own bed with a right sore head.  This wasn’t the sort of injury you can get from improper use of a pillow and can be incorrectly known as a hangover.  This was more along the lines of a physical issue and I wondered just how much my pillow actually hated me.  I knew I would have to complete much more detailed research into pillow abuse.

It was the Monday morning when it was all explained to me by Colin Malcolm.  Colin had been the orderly officer the night of the squadron party and had been stone cold sober throughout the evening.  He explained what had happened and I was slightly embarrassed as he couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he explained what had gone on.  I had passed out.  Standard squadron operating procedure for consuming too much brandy.  Keith Mac Burney had decided that he would ensure that John, who hadn’t passed out but who was trying to crawl in to the embers of the bonfire to keep warm.  Keith decided that he would ensure that John and myself would be escorted safely back to our accommodation.  He asked Colin Malcolm to bring the minibus around and he then organised the remaining aircrew to help get John and I into the back of the vehicle.

I was lifted, by four fighter pilots, one on each hand and one on each leg and under the supervision of Keith Mac Burney was taken over to the rear of the minibus.  Keith decided that by employing a swinging motion they could sort of chuck me into the rear of the vehicle.  Keith was coordinating and suggested that on the count of three, maximum effort would be employed, and I would sail into the rear of the waiting vehicle.  The first attempt failed, as did the second and the third.  By this point in the recounting of the story, Colin Malcolm looks as if he is about to wet himself with laughter and Keith Mac Burney is just as interested in the story as I am.  Colin continues to explain that he had to step in and help. The reason the guys couldn’t get me into the rear of the vehicle was because they hadn’t opened the fecking doors, and every time Keith Mac Burney shouted “Three!” they swung me forward and my head slammed in to the closed rear doors of the minibus.