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.”
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