Celtic Illumination, part 236, The hippy, hippy, shakes.

I hope you don’t mind me asking but I need a wee bit of help.  I need to find the three best stories in all of my blog.  That’s not something I can do, only you, the reader, The Illuminati, can decide that.  So, if you wouldn’t mind and if you have the time, could you add a comment at the end of this, or contact me in any other form that you want to and let me know which story tickled you the most, if any.  There’s no need to go hunting through previous blogs to find the title or part number, although if you want to feel free, it’ll save me doing it.  If you just want to say what the story was about, or who it was about, that will suffice.  Thanks for your help and support, world domination beckons.

My world had certainly been shaken with the job offer from Tim Hirschman.  I wasn’t sure what to do as I wasn’t really aware of civilian life.  I suppose I had been very lucky as we had always lived in nice comfortable houses and never really wanted for anything.   I had never thought about buying a house or settling down somewhere.  This was a time when Margaret Thatcher was coming in to power and the ‘greed is good’ mantra was becoming popular.  Tony and myself were becoming good friends and I had never considered him as a wealthy man.  We once went to Colchester and visited the Volvo car showroom.  Tony bought three brand new Volvos and I didn’t see anything strange with this.

We had a routine for Sundays which for us would begin at ten in the morning.  We would meet up and go to Ipswich airport where we would take an aircraft out and bash it about above Felixstowe.  Once down we would drive back to Shotley and go to the pub.  The pub closed at half past two when we would buy a bottle of whiskey and head to Chelmondiston, where Tony’s boat was moored.  It was a six berth, twin diesel, converted trawler, if that means anything to you.  We would settle ourselves on the boat, drink the bottle of whisky, and spend the remainder of the evening trying to get off the boat.  Now I can look back and see that perhaps Tony did have more money that the average person, but at the time it meant absolutely nothing to me.  And anyway, the air force was always there to bring me straight back to earth.

One day on my way home from work, it was around lunchtime, I decided to nip in to The Rose and have a quiet pint.  There was only one other fellow there, and he was the local doctor.   We got chatting and I discovered that he had been in the navy and stationed at HMS Ganges, down the road, where he had been the surgeon.  When he left the navy he elected to stay in the area and become the local doctor.  I asked him for his opinion on service life compared against civilian life and he gave me his views, but he did keep looking at me in a rather strange way.  Eventually he asked what the lump underneath my ear was and I explained that it was a cyst.  He wanted to know why I hadn’t see the doctor on camp to have it removed and I explained that the doctor and I were not the best of friends after some people had intervened on a medical issue  on my behalf.

By this time we had finished with the beer and were on the pink gins.  It was approaching half past two and the pair of us were entering staggering mode.  It was then that he suggested we nip around to his surgery where he would whip out the cyst.  Why not, I thought, and so we went back to the local surgery which only had secretarial staff working.  We went in to his consulting room and he asked me to lie down on the bed.  I did and he then cleaned and prepared the area around my ear.  He then turned and I thought he was doing something at the sink when he asked if I was happy to continue. I said yes to see him spin around and swipe at my head with the scalpel.  I didn’t feel any pain, just the blood run down my neck.

“Sorry about that,” he said.  “I went a bit deep there.”  I waved it away and allowed him to finish his job sewing my head back together again.  With the job done and the pair of us thinking it was time for a nap he finished up and gave me a shaving chitty.  These were regarded as gold dust in the air force.  For some strange reason it was something we all looked forward to, getting a shaving chitty.  Mine was for two weeks and I was mightily proud of it.  As luck would have it I had pulled a twenty four hour stint as guard commander in the guardroom.  I arrived bright and early and entered the guardroom.  The Station Warrant Officer came in.  I was at the reception window issuing keys, so the Station Warrant Officer, the SWO, lined up the guard for inspection.

He bollocked each and every one of them, and because I wasn’t in the line-up I have to admit it was quite funny.  One poor chap, who had a small stain on his jacket, was accused of eating his breakfast off his uniform.  One by one the SWO bollocked each of the guard and then sent them off to their duties.  He then turned on the Orderly officer and gave him what for, which had me start to get worried.  He then snapped the head off the orderly Sergeant and told him to take over issuing the keys as he wanted to have a wee word with me.  I left the desk and came to the SWO.  “We’ve forgotten to do something this morning haven’t we laddie?”

It was pure pantomime but with a serious edge to it, so I played along.  “Me sir?  Not me sir.  I don’t think I forgot to do anything this morning.”  “We forgot to shave this morning, laddie,” growled the SWO, to which I reply.  “Oh no sir, not me.  I have a shaving chitty.”  The SWO holding his hand out, meant that he wanted to see the letter, so I gave him my shaving chitty.  “Ah!” says the SWO.  “This is from a civilian doctor!”  “Yes sir,” I answered, wondering if it mattered if a civilian doctor or a military doctor issued a no shaving chitty.  “You’re not a civilian laddie,” snarled the SWO, who immediately called me to attention.  He began to bark orders at me and had me march out of the guard room while he explained to the orderly Sergeant what he was up to.

Once again I found myself with most people arriving for work, being marched down the centre of the main road on camp with the SWO screaming “Left, right, left, right, swing those arms higher!”  He made a right meal of it and marched me all the way to the station medical centre.  I could see people disappearing into bushes and behind buildings as we moved along.  Even the waiting room in the medical centre began to empty as they heard the shouting coming through the main door.  The senior medical officer, my friend, came out to investigate.  The three of us went in to a treatment room where once again I was asked to lie down on the bed.

The SWO was loving it as he explained to the doctor that I had gone to see a civilian doctor rather than a military doctor.  The SMO was inspecting my ear and missing cyst.  “I think the area has gone septic,” said the SMO.  “I’ll have to open it up and clean it out.”  I said nothing and lay there, at least this time we were all sober, except the SMO declared that if I was brave enough to visit a civilian doctor then I wouldn’t be needing any anaesthetic.   I cringed as he cut into the wound.  I couldn’t really feel any pain but I could hear him saw through the skin and that made me shudder.  He cleaned out the wound and then sewed my head back together, again.  He then began to give me advice on how to care for the wound, and as he said that I shouldn’t shave for a fortnight the SWO erupted and stormed out of the medical centre screaming that he wasn’t happy having a fecking hippy running his guard room.

Celtic Illumination, part 235, Behind you!!!!

Get off your knees, stop bowing and no; you don’t have to call me sir, not just yet.  I must have re-read the two letters eleventeen times each.  I had certainly overshot the simple target of getting promoted.  First thing I had to do was get myself back on to camp and apologise to both the Station Commander and O C Operations.  I felt such a fool as the pair of them would have known I was up for an award as I berated them at the ‘bring your boss’ function .  I got to camp in double quick time and first of all went to the Station Commanders house.  As I expected he took it with a pinch of salt as did O C Operations, but I still felt that I had let myself down.  I only wish I could know what they really thought of me.  Not something you usually find out but being me, I did.

A new Warrant Officer was posted in to air traffic and he had been allocated a quarter at Shotley.  In fact it was directly opposite my house.  He couldn’t drive so I would give him a lift in and out of work as and when our shifts came together.  He was waiting for a quarter on camp, so wouldn’t be around Shotley for too long.   He was a really interesting guy and loved a flutter on the horses.  He told me that he once won the bookies shop but the air force wouldn’t allow him to keep his winnings.  One morning he was complaining that his pillows had given him grief as he slept, and he now had a sore head.  Of course it was nothing to do with the informal party he had attended.  O C Operations was being posted so held an informal gathering at his home for most of the senior guys in air traffic.

He tells me that it was a very relaxed affair where they all sat around in the living room drinking and generally having a laugh.  At one point in the evening they decided to go through and describe the key people in air traffic for the new O C Operations and subsequently came to me.  He agreed to tell me what O C Operations said about me if I promised not to tell anyone.  Of course I promised.  What he said, when they came to me, was “If you want the Great Wall of China erected around the airfield overnight, then suggest it to him and it will be done.  If you order him to build the Great Wall of China around your airfield overnight it will never get completed.”  So I finally found out what O C Operations thought about me and in a way I was pleased.

I had called in to The Rose one day and discovered that my secret was out.  The landlord was very pleased that someone who came in to his pub was on the New Year’s Honours list.  He had laid out all the national newspapers on the long bar counter and circled my name, where it appeared on the front page, with a felt pen.  Normally most newspapers print a list of people who receives awards on either the New Year’s Honours list or the Queen’s Birthday Honours list later in the year.  Mike, the landlord, announced that I would receive a free drink for every newspaper that I was named in.  Suddenly this awards thing was showing a positive return.  I went along with the revelry as the local yokels seemed to feel that they had a celebrity in their midst.  All apart from one.

Tony, the richest man in the village, had been quite quiet.  The others were offering me congratulations and when it came to Tony’s turn he said “I think you’re an idiot.”  It wasn’t an insult, or a challenge, or even a threat.  I asked if he would explain himself and he did.  “If you had put as much time and effort into a job in civvie street you would be counting pound notes now, not how many newspapers you are in.”  It made sense, sort of, but I had no real experience of civvie street, so wasn’t really sure what he was talking about.  “Tell you what,” said Tony.  “I’ve a friend coming over sometime soon.  I’d like you to meet him.” 

I didn’t really think much more about what Tony said.  Apart from the stress of all my secondary duties I was now being told that the Queen was coming to Wattisham in the April, and I would receive my award from her then.  This was terrible news for I knew that the station would go into meltdown.  I had seen it before, grass getting painted green, everyone getting inspected and polished, fecking nightmare, even Irene telling me that she wasn’t wearing long gloves for anybody.  I concentrated on my secondary duties and thankfully still had some that were thoroughly enjoyable such as the pantomime run.  This year there were two pantomimes for the children to attend.  One was the professional, civilian, production in Felixstowe theatre.

It was great fun with the children and herding them from the coaches into the auditorium was the hardest duty of the night.  It was a great atmosphere and a great night.  The second pantomime unfortunately did turn into a pantomime.  It was being produced by the station’s drama club and if felt more that we had to attend rather than choose to go.  We got to the drama club early and poured the children into the drama club.  The atmosphere was not the same as Felixstowe, but that was me, an adult, I hoped the children would not feel so.  They didn’t appear to as they had taken over the front four rows of seating and were sitting on the back of the chairs, rather than the seat, which I took as a good sign.  They were a little rowdy too, but this was a pantomime, it’s what they were supposed to be like.

I was asked to come outside and found myself facing a small group of people, men, women and children.  One of the men introduced himself, he was some sort of Wing Commander.  He explained that he and his brother officers, also Wing Commanders, had turned up with their ladies and sprogs for the pantomime and expected to have the best seats in the house.  Would I go back inside and move the children away from the front rows and on to the rear row and ask them to settle down.  I really couldn’t believe what I was hearing, that someone could be so pathetic.  I realised that if this guy was sad enough to ask me to do such a thing, that if I had challenged him or refused his request I would be getting myself into an awful lot of trouble.  I had no choice but to move the children and I can promise you I had never felt so angry in all my life.

A day or two later I got a call from Tony who invited Irene and myself over to his house to meet this friend of his.  We had the standard meal and drinks and then relaxed in the living room.  The guy, Tony’s friend, was Tim Hirschman.  Tony had filled him in all about me and we spent some time swapping funny anecdotes.  Tim explained that he would go abroad and visit spectacle frame manufactures.  He would buy ‘end of the line’ products.  So say for example Yves Saint Laurent produced a spectacle frame that was popular, or fashionable, they would continue to produce the frame until their new range came out.  There would always be a few thousand frames remaining at the factory and these are the ones Tim bought.

I found the mark up quite interesting.  An Yves Saint Laurent frame, then, would sell for upwards of one hundred and twenty pounds.  Tim was buying the frames for five, quite a mark-up, and opticians were lining up to buy them from him.  Next thing you know is that Tim offers me a job.  Not just any job, he gave me ‘my patch.’  He would like me to represent him in Ireland, the whole island of Ireland was to be ‘my patch.’   It was interesting and so exciting to think that I could return home.  I suppose the romantic in me had taken over and I had the old green tinted glasses on.   Luckily enough Irene had her practical head on.  She asked the killer question.  Okay it would be lovely to have such an exciting and varied job, and it would be fantabulous to return to Ireland but how much was I going to be paid.  Tim wrote a figure on a small piece of paper and handed it over.  It was three times what I was earning and although I had probably never thought about money or salary before I actually fell off my seat.

Celtic Illumination, part 234, On a wing and a prayer.

I was starting to get to know a lot of the local civilians.  After every meeting of the drama group we would end up in the local pub, The Rose.  There seemed to be a clique, but as some of the drama group were married, to members of the clique, I was accepted into their conversation.  One regular, Ben, a serial draught Guinness drinker, worked for the post office.  He actually went out in the television license detector van, looking for people who hadn’t paid for their television license.  Ben explained that the equipment rarely worked, but what they used was a computer printout.  If a licence had ever been registered at the address then they would have a record of it and if you didn’t have a current licence they would give you a knock.

You have to agree that there’s no point in knowing someone like that if they don’t offer to help out.  Ben took all of our names and address and assured us that he would ‘adjust’ the computer records so that the van would never call on our addresses.  There were two teacher types who constantly nipped outside to smoke joints.  There was Francis.  An old fart, who had retired and moved to the area.  He lived in a mobile home that sat on a hill next to the old HMS Ganges.  We always threatened that when he died, for he was quite old, that we would set fire to the caravan, with him in it, and launch it off into the Orwell River, giving him a Viking funeral.

Francis had a little green MG open top sports car and would often leave it sitting outside with the keys in the ignition.  Too much of a temptation and I would quite often jump in his car and spend twenty minutes hammering around the local lanes, scaring the locals, but giving them something to talk about.  As they say, you can take a good ol boy out of Warrenpoint but……  There was another fellow there, Tony.  He was an optician and a strange fish, his wife was in the drama group.  In the beginning I was the new boy and therefore considered to be daft.  On the good ol boy scale of things this lot, compared to me, were yokels, all that was missing was the smock, straw hat and wellie boots.

Tony liked to think of himself as the richest man in the village, but as we all know money is not the be all and end all of life.  They had a little trick they played with newcomers, especially bloody foreigners.  And I wasn’t the only bloody foreigner.  A new fellow had moved in to the village, Chris Pollock.  Chris was a Manchester chap but worked in London as a welder and pipe fitter.  His wife however was from South America.  Her name was Aura and she was as black as the ace of spades.  The first evening they came in to the pub, the locals really did stop and stare. I think they had never met a black person before and didn’t know what to do or say.  Hello, is normally a good start.  Being a bloody foreigner myself, I threw my arms around her neck and gave her a huge bear hug, despite the local yokels and their disapproving looks.  She was lovely.

Chris always told a story that when he went to her village to get married, the road ran out and they had to take donkeys.  He was always off his head on some form of pot, but says that whatever they had been giving him in South Amercia had him dismount his donkey, when they came to a bridge, and try to carry the fecking thing over.  Anyway, back to Tony who, as if they are all in on the joke, asks me if I like flying?  ‘Of course I do,’ says I.  ‘I prefer flying helicopters to fixed wing, but yeah.’  They seemed to stumble a little bit with my response, but carried on regardless, as I said, yokels.  ‘How would you like to go flying on Sunday?’ asked Tony, and I said.  ‘Yeah sure, why not?’

Now they could begin to laugh and chuckle.  It would appear that Tony had taken each of them flying, from Ipswich airport, and performed some aerobatic manoeuvres encouraging each of them to be violently ill.  This was my intended fate.  Tony picked me up from my house on the Sunday morning.  He was wearing his lucky shirt.  We drove to Ipswich and took a little Cessna 172 out for an hour.  From the off, Tony was trying to scare me.  We got airborne and flew out over Felixstowe and Tony informs me that we are going to ‘loop the loop.’  First of all we climbed to five thousand feet then went into a dive.  When your airspeed hits one hundred and twenty knots you pull the stick back and enter a loop.

Once the manoeuvre was completed I think Tony was disappointed that I was far from getting green around the gills.  In fact he asked if I would like a go.  Seriously?   Good ol boys and speed are the two things that really do go together.  I suggested we try a hand brake turn which I think had him worried.  I began my descent from five thousand feet and was shouting at the speed to increase.  Tony was still asking what a hand brake turn was.  I began to pull the stick back and explained that when we hit the top of the loop, we should pull out and begin to climb, nose up, till we stalled.  A moment or two after the engine cuts out, the aircraft will begin to turn and fall, that’s when you kick the rudder and set yourself off into a spin, or as a good old boy would call it, a hand brake turn, even though it wasn’t a car and you were still at five thousand feet.

It was great fun and the pair of us tried to get the aircraft to pull itself to pieces.  After an hour of loops, and spins, and dives, and the odd hand brake turn, we headed back to Ipswich wondering if anyone would pay us money for an aerial photograph of their house.  I stood behind Tony as he paid for our little jaunt.  It was thirty eight pounds for the hour, so when we got out to the car park I gave him twenty pounds and thanked him for such an enjoyable morning.  Tony was really taken aback.  He said that he had taken everyone from the pub flying but no one had ever offered to pay him before.  Yokels I tell you.  So from then on, if I would like to go flying with him every Sunday, I would be more than welcome, oh and by the way, he was happy to pay for it all.

At Wattisham, things were ticking over nicely.  I was still very busy with this, that and the other.  Christmas was approaching and I was really looking forward to taking the children to the pantomime, even though it wasn’t my responsibility.  There’s nothing like sitting in a theatre shouting and screaming “Behind you!!!”  I had the Christmas parties to arrange as well, not just for air traffic but the families club, so I was busy on all fronts.  It was nice to know that there would be a couple of parties I could attend where I didn’t have to organise anything, where I could just attend and enjoy myself.  One such event was a ‘bring your boss’ function on Wattisham.  I really can’t remember who hosted the function, not that it is important.

It was booze at stupid prices so Tom McCann and myself, like most other people attending, got there early.  It was late afternoon and I promise you we were well gone.  O C Operations saw us and came over for a chat.  Unfortunately it was one of those days and when he asked how things had gone this past year in air traffic, I didn’t hold back.  Once Tom saw me vent my spleen he joined in and the poor fellow got all our bile about the useless Joe Pearson and fecking wife swappers getting promoted and posted while those of us who worked our pretty little arses off got nothing.  O C Operations was so interested he called the Station Commander over and he too got a dose of ‘feck you I’ve had enough.’

I do remember the following morning.  I was standing in the living room of our house and my head was really throbbing.  It was those fecking pillows again.  I began to remember the events of previous day and evening and drenched myself in embarrassment.  I told myself that the first thing I should do after the holiday period was over, would be to visit both O C Operations and the Station Commander and apologise to them.  I’m sure it wasn’t the first time it had happened to them and I’m sure they encountered similar situations again.  I noticed a motorcycle pull in to my drive and wondered what was going on.  I didn’t know anyone with a motor cycle.  I looked more closely and with the way the fellow was dressed and the style of motorcycle thought ‘dispatch rider.’

I answered the door worried that I had got myself in trouble, again.  The motorcyclist asked for my identity card which I gave him.  He checked the details against a list he had and then asked me to sign a sheet, which I did, and was given two envelopes.  I stepped back in to the house wondering what on earth was going on.  You could tell from the feel of the envelopes that they were high quality.  Each was hand written and addressed to me in beautiful black ink, which of course makes you thing solicitor.  Well; it does me.  Irene came in and could see that I was worried.  I opened the first envelope and read the letter within.  I think the colour must have drained out of my face, for Irene was asking what was wrong, what had happened.  I opened the second letter and read it.  ‘Is it bad news?’ asked Irene.  ‘It’s worse than that,” I said.  ‘I’ve received an award on the New Year’s Honours list.’

Celtic Illumination, part 233, Sons of pitches.

I suppose the whole football thing came about from the most stupid hissy fit ever.  I mean who sets about organising an event so that you can tell people they’re not invited.  Some call it madness, I would probably call it genius, and you know you will agree with me.  Look into my eyes.  Anyway, I began telephoning various friends scattered throughout the UK to see if they might be interested in attending such an event.  About one hour later I knew I was on to a winner and the focus now changed to getting a great bunch of lads together for an enormous electric piss up.  Oh yeah, and there would be some football matches. 

I had to tread very carefully because I knew how the air force worked.  Someone would dream up a great idea, but they would be told that they were probably incapable of organising something and would benefit from having an officer in charge.  This had happened to me before, after I organised the bicycle relay from John O Groats to Lands’ End, so; as they say, once bitten, you should be prepared to bite back.  There were other little niggly problems that would need some attention, like where could I hold it, what should I call it, how many players on a five a side football team?  I named my project the Royal Air Force Air Traffic Five A Side Football Competition, which boiled nicely down to the RAF ATC 5’s.

Trying to keep as much control of the project as I could, I went in to see the SATCO and asked permission to organise a football match between some air traffic units.  He gave me permission but was completely disinterested and sent me on my way.  One of the lads in air traffic was a football referee so I asked him to be in charge of providing enough referees for the event.  Another fellow played football for the station, so he was asked to be in charge of the actual football competition.    And so it went, I found enough people to cover one small aspect each, even putting Tom in charge of entertainment for the evening.  It would be a weekend event, arrive Friday night, meet greet and fall over.  Saturday would see the actual competition, Saturday evening would be energetic consumption of lunatic soup, awarding of trophies and any other business.

I spoke to some people about hosting it at Wattisham but there wasn’t enough accommodation. It then dawned on me that the answer was literally on my doorstep.  HMS Ganges, now Eurosports, was just across the road from me at Shotley Gate.  I dandered over and was chatting to the security guard on the main gate, an ex air force chap who informs me that the Eurosports boss is ex air force too, except he had been some sort of failed fast jet pilot and not exactly the sharpest tool in the box.  I went on to find him and have an informal chat.  Seems that the Eurosports centre could fulfil all my needs, accommodation, large playing fields, and a huge function room with bar.  The only problem was that he had trouble finding enough bar staff.

This was turning in to a number of birds and some stones situation.  I explained that I ran the families club bar and had a number of experienced and trustworthy people who could work as bar staff, all he had to do was give me a call and  tell me how many he required.  At last I could offer my bar staff paid work.  Gradually things began to come together.  I just gathered and coordinated numbers, anyone wanting to book accommodation could do it themselves directly with Eurosports.  After about four weeks I had thirty six teams signed up, coming in from all parts of the country and I suppose if anyone from Germany had asked go come I would have agreed, as I wanted the event to be as big as possible.

I was sitting minding my own business one day when the SATCO ran in.  “I’ve just had the AOC on the telephone,” he says, as if it would mean something to me.  “He says thanks very much for the invite and he would love to come and present the trophies at your football competition.”  “Great,”  says I, putting a tick beside his name on my sheets.  “I think you had better come in to my office and tell me all about this competition,” he says and I oblige.  The SATCO now enters panic mode.  The AOC was the head of our trade group and who better to present the trophies that the top air trafficker in the air force?  According to the SACTO he will have to inform the Station Commander and they will all have to turn up and welcome the AOC.

I argued against it as it really had nothing to do with Wattisham as it was being held on a civilian site.  He said he would talk to the Station Commander and they would decide how to play it. And as this was now such a large event, and especially with the AOC coming, he would have to nominate an officer to oversee things, make sure there were no hidden glitches or problems.  I thanked him for his concern and assured him that there were no problems or glitches and as I had come up with the idea, and organised everything this far, why did I now need an officer to ‘help’ me.  It had all been going so well that I was a little disappointed at his attitude, but what could I do about it.  The only other disappointment I encountered was when I telephoned Rod Shackleton.  He was the weird Corporal at Valley when I threw some shotgun cartridges in an oven and switched it on, to get his attention.  He just sat there mesmerised, if it hadn’t been for Steve Underhill, Rod would still be picking buckshot out of his hide. 

Rod wouldn’t entertain the idea when I suggested he might like to enter a team and was the only one I came across who was against the event, perhaps it was me he was against.  The weekend arrived and I have to admit I was quite looking forward to it.  The weather forecast was good, so I arranged a little barbeque with my American firefighter, Craig Scritchfield, manning the grill.  I couldn’t see any harm in making a few bob on the side.   I didn’t go over to Eurosports on the Friday night as none of my friends were arriving and who in their right mind wants to spend an evening in a room full of air traffickers.  Luckily for me everything seemed to go to plan.  As I had brought the whole thing to life I made the rules and rule number one was that the winning side had to organise and host the event the following year.

I wasn’t precious enough to want to keep the event for myself.  I think everyone had a good time and a team won the competition.  I have no idea which unit they were from, but I do have a photograph of the AOC presenting them with their trophies.  The SATCO had turned up and had positioned a junior officer on the main gate, with a radio, who would inform him the moment the AOC arrived at Eurosports.  When he arrived the SATCO went into mild panic and told me that I should come along with him and welcome the AOC.  I did, and suggested that perhaps he and Misses AOC would like a drink after been driven for such a long way.

We went into the bar area and sat down.  The shutters were down indicating that the bar was closed.  “Tea or coffee?” asks the SATCO to which the AOC says, “I would have preferred a gin and tonic.”  “But I’m sorry, the bar’s closed,” says the SATCO, who then notices me wave my hand to which one of my bar staff, now working for Eurosports for the day, comes over.  “Two gin and tonics please,” I ask.  “Oh and I’ll have beer.”  We had a nice little chat and it was funny watching the SATCO squirm as he had to say how well I had organised the event, that’s the event he had no interest in at the beginning.  So the AOC, assisted by Misses AOC, gave the winning team their trophies and followed up with some speech that he was proud to be in charge of the only trade group in the air force to have their own sporting competition. Then, thankfully, he left, as did the SATCO.

We all entered party mode and had a fantastic evening till something went wrong.   Sure the winning team had been given their trophies and warned that they were to organise and host the event the following year.  Tom and I brought them out to the front of the stage, during a break the band were having, and gave them all a pint of beer which they would have to down in one.  The crowd were cheering and encouraging them.  Tom and I were stood behind them and I noticed one of them wasn’t drinking the beer but pouring it over his shoulder perhaps hoping the poor lighting might hide his actions.  He may have got away with it if he had looked behind himself first, for what he wasn’t aware of was that he was pouring his beer over, and into, the bands amplifier, which decided to explode.

I am now harangued by the band leader who insists that I give him five hundred pounds to replace their amplifier.  I explained that I had no interest in his amplifier and that he should speak to the fellow who had poured the beer into it, not me.  “But you’re in charge!” he says, or accuses.  “You’re in charge so therefore it’s your responsibility.”  “Aha!” says I.  “I’m not in charge, you will need to speak to this fellow,” at which point I gave him the contact details for the officer the SATCO had nominated.  Believe it or not the competition still continues to this day, almost thirty years later, except it is held on the first weekend in June at Shawbury every year, the home of the air traffickers.  I think I might nip over there this year and ask for my ten per cent.

Celtic Illumination, part 232, Camping it up.

One day Tom McCann and myself were in the runway caravan.  We were just chatting and having a coffee, I mentioned how good my guys were, not just at their jobs but acting as a team.  Wattisham was a military emergency diversionary airfield, a MEDA, this meant that the airfield would stay open every hour of the day and every day of the year.  We had to be ready to accept any aircraft at any time of the day or night.  So as you may imagine if I was on duty on a Saturday and had been in the families club bar, till two or three in the morning, there was a good chance I was not going to get out of my bed at six in the morning.  One of my guys would automatically take over running the shift. He would make up some excuse, maybe that I had a flat tyre or was in SHQ on an errand, but he would cover for me until I got in.

They were all like that, even the one who went to prison, I couldn’t save them all.  And in a similar fashion I would help them out or stick up for them.  One day Leon came to me and the poor fellow as almost in tears.  Leon was a hard working fellow who didn’t drink or smoke.  He wanted to buy himself a red BMW motorcar, which he did.  He was very proud of his car and so he should have been.  Unfortunately every time he came across the RAF Police they would stop him and search his car, for drugs.  This had happened time and time again but Leon was used to this racist behaviour, probably topped with a good dose of jealousy.  This time however they had found a pair of aircrew gloves in his car.  Leon wasn’t aircrew, so he was to be charged with theft, which was a very loose attempt at them validating their racist behaviour.

I promised Leon that I would go and see the police, and I did.  I was furious and stormed right into the police section.  They had a large house near the main gate on camp that served at their headquarters.  I demanded to see whoever was in charge and was shown in to see a Flight Sergeant.  I don’t know how I was able to do it but the Flight Sergeant agreed that the whole incident seemed to have racist undertones, there would be no need for me to get the Station Commander involved and he would make sure that the charges were dropped.  Leon was pleased and of course I now became his hero, but I certainly promised myself that at every available opportunity in the future I was going to drop as many policemen in it as I could.  So as Tom and I chatted about our guys I came up with the idea that I should reward them in some way.    Tom felt that his guys needed a little boost as well, so we decided to take them on an expedition.

We decided to take an expedition to the Peak District over a long weekend.  We could get all the equipment we needed from the station gymnasium, food rations from Vic, maps from flight planning and vehicles from MT Flight.  This of course would bring me more smartie points for promotion.  I got permission from OC Operations to take a dozen or so guys on expedition and began the serious task of finding a pub with a camp site.  Two minivan loads of us set off on a Friday and headed for the Peak District.  I do remember that we stopped at RAF Wittering en route to say hello to Peter Browne.  It was an old habit from Ireland that if you were in a different town or area of the country you could never pass friend or a relative’s house without saying hello.

I had managed to find a camp site with a pub close by and so I erected the tent for Tom and myself pretty sharpish.  I’ll never forget Alistair, one of my guys, stood standing in the middle of this field, well, camp site.  It was dark, it was raining and he looked like a lost puppy.  He asked me if I would help him to put up his tent.  I had my mountain rescue head, on which made Alistair a trialist.  I told him that he should put it up himself; it was the only way to learn.  Although I have to admit that I did give in and put his tent up for him after he offered to cook all my meals for me over the weekend.   Interestingly enough I was still carrying out my detailed scientific research into pillows and the following morning found that even the improper use of a pillow, in a tent, could cause a sore head or, as they were more commonly and mistakenly known, a hangover.

Alistair was true to his word and cooked me a mighty fine breakfast the following morning.  I had planned a route for two teams across some pretty wild and vacant countryside.  Usual simple military exercise one vehicle drives to point A and the other vehicle to point B.  One team moves from point A to point B then drive back to base camp the other team, well; you get the picture.  Leon was acting as my navigator and was doing well till we came to a fork in the path.  I knew that we should go left but Leon insisted that we keep going straight ahead.  I still had my mountain rescue head on and knew that in a situation like this you should let the fellow make mistake after mistake and then, when they have dug themselves in nice and deep, you take over and show them where they have gone wrong, rather than correct every mistake as they make them.  They had to learn and not be mothered.

I certainly had to keep my eye on things as Leon took us, as they say, right in to the middle of nowhere.  Only when he realised that he was hopelessly lost did I step in and point out exactly where he had gone wrong.  I hope my tactics worked and I hope he learned from that incident.  It was a very enjoyable day out in the middle of nowhere.  I then showed the guys how an expert navigator operates and made a bee line for the nearest building, which just happened to be a pub.  We had radios with us so as my team settled in for a few scoops I contacted Tom and gave him the coordinates of the pub we were in, asking him to collect us once he had found the minibus.

What I had forgotten about was the pain we would have the following day from using muscles that had lain dormant for some time.  Some of the guys wanted to go and visit some Blue John mines, so we broke camp and sent one minibus off to the Blue John mines while the other minibus, full of cripples, made for a local hotel.  I do remember that Tom and I were sitting at the bar and were faced with a huge selection of beer, some of which I had never heard of.  They even had a thing called real ale, which I had not encountered before.  We got chatting with the landlord who began to allow us to taste this real ale stuff.  I was quite taken with the real ale it really was lovely.  I explained to the landlord that I ran a club and he took me down to his cellar and showed me how to set up and maintain a cellar for real ale. 

Tom, myself and the landlord remained in the cellar tasting and sampling the whole range of real ales.  Needless to say we were poured on to the minibus and slept all the way from the Peak District to Ipswich, which I have to say is the only way to travel in a minibus full or farting, belching, rogues.  It was a good break and a good bonding exercise.  I managed to bring everyone back alive and no one had been arrested so it was a definite plus on the smartie point side of things.  I was certain that I needed to get some real ale for the families club but I would have to create a temperature controlled cellar.  It would give me something to think about and thinking about things was what I was good at.  Some time later Tom and myself were back in the runway caravan chatting and having coffee, again.  We agreed that the expedition had been fun so we needed something else to do.

Tom then suggested that we attend a football competition.  He explained that in Germany there was an annual football competition between all the air traffic units.  If we could wangle an invite we could get the air force to pay for everything and we could enjoy a long weekend in Germany.  I was immediately on the telephone to air traffic in Bruggen.  I was lucky enough to speak to the fellow who was organising the competition that year, so I explained that if he would send us an invite we would bring a team over.  I was quite surprised when he said that the competition was only for those stationed in Germany.  We were not in Germany, so couldn’t come, good bye.  ‘At least you tried,’ said Tom, as I explained to him what had been said on the telephone.  But I wasn’t having any of it.  “I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more,” I said.  “I’ll have my own football competition and won’t invite them.”   Which you have to admit, is quite a strange thing to say for someone who had no interest whatsoever in football.

Celtic Illumination, part 231, Karma’s a bitch.

A new fellow arrived from Germany, Tom Mc Cann.  Thankfully Tom had a bit of life about him and was almost Irish, so at long last I had a decent partner in crime.  Tom lived in Stowmarket so from a social aspect we couldn’t really meet up that often, which probably was a good thing.  The occasional blow out would have been acceptable but anymore would be frowned on.  As was the wife swapping.  Somebody had snitched.  It wasn’t me, I fact I probably wouldn’t know how to report such a thing or who to report it to.  But somebody did and the Station Commander was most definitely not impressed.  Vic and I were summoned to the Station Commanders office.  It was a pleasant meeting, thankfully.  He explained that he was worried that once the news of the wife swapping got out, the community would fracture.  Our job was to strengthen the community, provide more functions and entertainment oh and by the way, I was now the bar manager.

Normally the committee would have elected the bar manager but in this situation the Station Commander was stepping in.  No one was going to argue with the Station Commander, especially me.  It certainly was a boost in my drive for promotion.  The one thing I couldn’t control was the time limit; I would have to serve a minimum of three years at my present rank before I would be eligible for promotion, and then start all over again.  The wife swapping air trafficker had got himself into a little trouble, on top of his sexual shenanigans, and I was giving him a lift in and out of work, when I was on duty.  Whether his lifestyle was caused by certain events or whether the events caused his lifestyle I’ll never know.  But it was interesting watching and listening to events as they unfolded.

He had one divorce under his belt, two suicide attempts, both failed by the way, and the air force had taken over his finances.  Every Friday he would have to report to accounts where he would be given some cash.  This would have to provide food for him and his two children for the following week.  He had got himself in so much debt that the air force had taken over his bank account and was trying to dig him out of the hole he had dug himself in to.  It was certainly a pretty poor career position to be in, so sometimes I would feel sorry for him, no matter what you lot think, I am human, almost.  Now of course he was to be posted.  This is where I could never understand the logic of the air force.  You would think that a group of people being posted to break up a wife swapping ring would get the more undesirable postings.  Maybe they would be posted to some remote Scottish Island where the cold air would dampen the ardour but no.  This fellow was posted to Gibraltar, oh and by the way, why not have a little promotion on your way.

It certainly makes you think about what is going on, well it did me.  Suddenly you wonder if it is all worth it.   He was almost bragging to me that he was off to Gibraltar for three years, with promotion, and all his little misdemeanour's would be forgotten about, he was being given a clean slate.  The only reason I could think for this to happen would have been that the Station Commander had been involved in the wife swapping.  On the one hand it was nice to think that the air force were not going to hold a grudge and that you could resurrect yourself, but I wasn't sure, if you shoot yourself in the foot you should have the decency to limp.  It certainly made me reconsider all my options and I reaffirmed to myself that I was on the right path which was to work harder than I had ever done before, and to get promoted faster than anyone had ever done in the past.  And secretly wish that in some way or the other they would all get their comeuppance, because, in a way, their behaviour did reflect badly on the rest of us and I was no angel myself.

A month or two after he left for Gibraltar I met the fellow again and he told me that on arrival in Gibraltar he had been given an arrival brief.  During this meet and greet chat, a file had been produced and he was told that despite the fact that the file existed, and that it contained every little detail about him and his past, it wouldn't be mentioned or taken in to account again, if he stayed out of trouble and debt.  I’m not sure if that’s torture or not but suddenly, to me at least, his get out of jail free card didn't seem to be worth much, despite the sunshine.  With the wife swappers going and me now holding the most powerful position in the families club I could now let my creative juices flow.  I had noticed that there were very few Americans coming in to the club and decided to focus on finding out what they required from the club, after all it was their club too.

John Lanzafame was my main link into the American air force so he encouraged one or two of his buddies to come along.  I managed to get two of them to volunteer to be bar staff.  It was an interesting situation where I couldn’t pay my bar staff money and up until I had taken over, the only form of payment they would receive would be if someone bought them a drink or gave them a tip, a sort of keep the change type gesture.  As I was a wizard with mathematics I was able to employ a little creative accounting and provided anyone working as bar staff, for the evening, a couple of free drinks.  The first volunteer was a fellow called Craig Scritchfield; he was a firefighter and a great giggle.  I think he would be classed as a red neck and he used to entertain us all with stories from the states.

I think he may have been suitable material to become a good ol boy. The bar had to close every evening at eleven o clock on the dot.  For specific functions or parties I would have to apply to the Station Commander for permission to stay open later.  Needless to say, sometimes this rule was ignored and the bar would stay open to dawn.  We were not alcoholics, or addicted to drink, but sometimes the craic would be so good we just forgot about time.  Of course it would mean that at breakfast time you were off your trolley and I do remember one such breakfast time.  Craig had married a local English girl from Ipswich. She had a reputation for throwing things at him.  He believed that staggering home at breakfast time might put him in the getting shouted at category so he came up with a brilliant idea, as most drunks do.

Craig had a huge minibus type vehicle which was always parked on his drive as it was too fecking big to go in to his garage.  He decided that we would both sneak around to his house.  He would grab a spanner and roll under his truck, pretending to be working on it, while I would arrive at the front door, knock and ask if he was coming out to play.  This probably shows how drunk I was as I agreed to do it.  Craig’s wife wasn’t so easily fooled and she demanded that he get into his house immediately before the neighbours saw the fool.  As I walked away I began to try to identify the objects being thrown inside the house from the sound they made as they ricocheted off the walls.

The other fellow John Lanzafame had brought didn’t volunteer for bar duty but his wife did.  Peggy Sue.  Peggy Sue was great fun and was liked by most people and was a great little worker.  Normally my bar staff would roll in on a Sunday evening and choose which shifts they would like to work during the following week.  One Sunday evening Peggy Sue’s husband came in and came to the bar.  He asked me for a pint of beer and I poured one, presented it to him and said that it was free, on the house, as a sort of thank you for all the hard work his wife had put in.  He refused to accept the free beer and insisted that he would pay for it.  Strange, but I followed the maxim that the customer was always right.  “Where is Peggy Sue anyway?”  I asked, as I hadn’t seen her for a few days.

“She’s fine,” he said, sipping at his beer.  “She’s stateside.”  “She’s in America?” I asked, thinking that it was strange she had never mentioned anything about going home.  “Yeah,” says her husband.  “I got a letter from her this morning and she says the syphilis has nearly cleared up!”  This is where he took his beer and turned away, leaving the bar, to sit on his own.  He finished the beer and left.  I thought it the strangest thing to say and couldn’t work out why he would say such a thing, but the following day everything was explained to me.  I was running the wife swopping air trafficker home after work when he asked if I could drop him at the special clinic in Ipswich.  I didn’t know what a special clinic was and had to ask.  It seems that one evening there was a small group in the bar and they had been talking about sexual preferences or specific turn-ons.  Peggy Sue had said that her fantasy was to have sex with four men at once, on a pool table.  I could never play on that pool table again, but I was content that if the air force didn’t provide karma, Mother Nature would step in instead.

Celtic Illumination, part 230, Tequila Mockingbird.

Some of the more ‘aloof’ members of the Illuminati have been contacting me wondering how on earth one can convert time invested in committee work into smartie points for promotion.  Well; read on dear heart and I shall lay bare the duplicity and skulduggery required for success.  These methods will still be valid today and could most probably be translated into civilianese.  Remember what the Warrant Officer from Shawbury said to me when I asked him how I could get promoted.  He asked me to try and imagine my boss preparing the annual assessments.  In his head he would line us all up and then compare one against the other.  What I had to do was, when he was looking at us all in the line, was to be the one jumping up and down the most.  With legs like mine, I ask you!

Don’t think that just by volunteering to be on any committee is enough, once there, you have to perform.  I have come across many who had joined committees to get their promotion smartie points and found themselves completely out of their depths.  It helps if you are competent and boy was I.  In fact I didn’t really like myself for I had no time for committees, and any time I found myself chairing any committee meeting it was a nightmare having to listen to other people’s ideas and suggestions.  I mean now and again someone would dream up a gem of an idea but it wasn’t that often.  Whatever you were involved in had to work, in fact it had to succeed.

More importantly you had to make sure that people knew about your success.  This was not so much ‘blowing your own trumpet’ but just making sure that your name was put before the correct people time and time again, so any occasion that they thought of you, you were jumping up and down.  Every committee meeting had to produce detailed minutes of the meeting and this is where you could really score smartie points.  First of all you had to volunteer to record and produce the minutes.  Remember, as a famous Irishman with lovely legs once said, “It’s not who makes history that succeeds but who writes history.”   This had to be done efficiently and in double quick time.   You couldn’t steal anyone else’s idea, but you could make it appear that you were one of the more important cogs.  So every topic or motion had to have a proposer and a seconder and nominated people would be responsible for seeing certain actions through.

Take for example the local civilian drama group.  There is no direct link between that and Wattisham, so I have to create one.  The drama group met in a local person’s house once a week and read through lines.  So when the Families Club committee meet I propose that in order to strengthen bonds between our little community and the civilian community we allow the drama group to use the club to rehearse their next production, it has to go in the minutes.  Now, no one in the drama group has asked for such a thing, but when I suggest that perhaps there could be an insurance issue or a security issue perhaps this proposal should go to the Station Commander.  Of course everyone thinks that this is a great idea. So do I, for every month the station commander was being told what a great guy I was and how involved I was in the local community.  In fact, on paper, I was real asset in promoting the good name and nature of the air force.

I was now involved in the local amateur dramatic group.  I thought I could help sweeping up, or opening and closing the stage curtains, however being the sort of fellow that I am, I found myself centre stage so to speak and it didn’t matter how I felt about it, I was going to have to go through with it and probably have the chairman of the local amateur dramatic committee invite the station commander to their next performance as a thank you for allowing them to use the Families Club, which they had never got around to but it’s the thought that counts.  And the Station Commander would probably be too busy to attend but at least he would know who their star performer was.  So I hope you can see that you just didn’t join committees and get promoted, there was a certain amount of deception and shenanigans involved and let’s not forget a lot of hard work too.

And I suppose you think that it stops there, well; no it doesn’t.  For what you now need is for your boss and the Station Commander to come visit, you need them to pop along and see what you are doing, let them hear from everyone else just how good you really are.  In the forces we called this a ‘Bring your boss night.’  As well as making sure your name featured with the correct projects you could make sure that you name didn’t appear for certain things, like suggesting there should be a bring your boss event.  Don’t want to appear pushy, now do we?  And of course the ‘bring your boss’ concept was a little loose.  Most of us would have three, what I suppose we call today line managers.  There would be your immediate boss, then your section boss and then your squadron boss.

I invited my immediate boss and my squadron boss.  My section boss was the SATCO and he was a total arse so if someone else wanted to invite him they could.  The evening would be split in to two sections.  First section would be the meet and greet and pleasant and polite conversation.  About nine o clock in the evening the senior guys would leave and we would then launch in to an evening of madness.  I had enough experience of these types of evenings to know that it was pretty easy to allow yourself to be carried along and end up in a gutter somewhere, for this evening I decided to be in control.  I made sure that an American service man John Lanzafame was on the bar.

Everyone arrived and we stood around chatting and pointing out what we had done to the building and of course made sure that the Station Commander and O C Operations knew who the driving force was behind the Familes Club. We then waved them away and settled in to the more down to earth section of the evening.  What my poor immediate boss didn’t know is that I had planned to get him off his trolley.  He though he was simply standing at the bar with me, a pleasant Irish fellow with the nicest legs in Ireland and Vic Storey, the chief cook and bottle washer from Wattisham.  One of the reasons we had invited everyone down was that we had rebuilt the bar and extended the lounge, we had to show all this off.

The bar looked quite nice, quite professional actually, all the bottles lined up and glasses laid out.  On the word of command Vic, totally out of the blue, as we had planned, asks my boss if he has ever tasted a certain blend of tequila.  Of course he hasn’t, because it was something special that John Lanzafame bought on the American air base.  Vic was a wonderful story teller and makes it appear that this tequila is one of the best brands in the world.  My boss is now a little drunk and I suggest that he should buy a round of drinks.  I bet you’ll never guess what he bought.  Correct, three tequilas.  Well Vic was now becoming his best friend ever, along with me.  There was a mass of whiskey glasses laid out, upside down, which were being used to serve drinks.  John Lanzafame had to turn his back to us, open the tequila bottle and pour the three drinks.  What my boss couldn’t see is that John only poured one drink.

The rear row of glasses were sitting the correct way up and each contained a shot of tap water.  Vic and I were drinking water while my poor boss was hoofing down tequila.  Of course we thank him for being so gracious for buying us such a fantastic drink, but now it was our turn to buy him a drink and the game continued.  It wasn’t long before his legs stopped working and he started to do the old fall down dance that is so popular amongst drunks.  We were only having a bit of fun and didn’t want to harm, or kill him, so we poured him in to a mini bus and told the driver to take him home. He lived somewhere on the outskirts of Ipswich so it would only take about twenty minutes to get him home.

So at the end of the evening I felt that I had accomplished something.  All those who needed to know, had been told how good I was.  My immediate boss wasn’t going to remember much about the evening so could only assume that he had had a good night and boy when he came to write my assessments would I be jumping up and down.  We tidied up a bit and then all relaxed and sat back to enjoy a beer when the minibus driver came in looking very unhappy indeed.  He was sporting a bit of a bruised eye and began shouting at me for having such fantastic ideas.  Seems that the driver forgot the address that he was to take my immediate boss to and had stopped outside Ipswich train station, where there was plenty of light.  He had started to go through my bosses pockets hoping to find an address when my boss regained consciousness, thought he was being robbed, so fought back.  I thought it might have been the only glitch in my perfect evening however I was soon to discover that my boss couldn’t remember a thing about his journey home.  It all sounded good to me as I told him what a great night he had had and we should do it again sometime.  All I would have to do now was sit back and wait to get promoted.

Celtic Illumination, part 229, Doppelganger

Although my cousin Paul had a lovely house and was a perfect host the weekend was claustrophobic, to say the least.  I hated being the odd one out, not on familiar soil, unable to really relax.  I knew my cousins but had never met their partners or children.  I had never been told that they were getting married or producing offspring, although it appeared that they knew all about me.   It was Saturday evening, after a procession of relatives had come to visit, that I saw a gap and bolted, using my need to buy cigarettes from the local shop as my excuse.  It was nice to simply wander along, on my own, and talk to myself in English.  I’ve nothing at all against the Irish language and in fact am quite embarrassed that I cannot communicate in it more effectively.  I knew the area quite well and had used the shop as a youngster to buy sweeties.  As I stood in the queue at the counter I suddenly felt that I shouldn’t be there.

It hit me that I didn’t know anybody in the shop and that with the way I held myself, was dressed, even my haircut, would have me stand out as a Brit. I hurried back and knew that if I had been informed that I was to stay in Lurgan rather than Warrenpoint I would probably not have bothered, especially with the rigmarole at Aldergrove.  The following day, the Sunday, I said my farewells and was driven to Aldergrove by my cousin.  Paul filled me in on most of my old school chums from the Lurgan area and was able to tell me not just what prison they were in but how long a sentence they had been awarded, that’s the lucky ones, the ones that were still alive.  I kept to the shadows when I got to Aldergrove and made my way to air movements.

I went in and wasn’t surprised to see a few hundred paratroopers lolling around waiting for their flight.  I saw a desk manned by some military police, red caps, army flavoured police.  I reported and gave my name, rank and number.  I turned as I heard a Hercules take off and thought it strange as I was supposed to be on the lead aircraft.  I wasn’t the only person who thought it was strange as I was asked for my identity card to back up my claim as to who I was.  The last thing I expected was to be arrested but sure enough I now found myself wearing a pair of handcuffs made from the finest steel that Sheffield could produce.  At least the pongos now had something interesting to watch.  I, as usual, was just an observer.

Whoever was in charge of security had come over and double checked my identity card against the aircraft manifest.  “Who are you?” he asked, and I repeated my name, rank and number.  “You can’t be,” he insisted.” Which I can assure you had me thinking.  One of the downsides of being so clever is that some mornings I have woken up and not known my own name, and I don’t mean in a drink related way.  I was pretty sure that I had given my correct name, rank and number.  I wasn’t playing the old squadron game of giving false details or the like.  Each and every one of the red caps inspected my identity card while the guy in charge informed me that I couldn’t be who I said I was as I was on the first Hercules that had already left.  I saw a gap in their logic and bolted toward it.

“I was supposed to be on the first Hercules,” I explained.  “But for some reason it has left early, and I’ve missed it.”  I thought that even a buck eejit could grasp my explanation, but this was a military policeman, the normal rules of the universe didn’t apply.  “Look,” he sighed.  “You are on that aircraft.”  I was certain that I wasn’t, but said nothing; it might have been impolite to interrupt him.  “Someone claiming to be you, is actually on that flight, and if it isn’t really you, then who is it.”  Suddenly the problem was quite clear to me.  They had messed up.  They had allowed someone claiming to be me to get on the flight.  So rather than admit their cockup, it would be easier to say that I wasn’t who I said I was. It suddenly became quite clear that it wasn’t me on the lead aircraft; I mean it couldn’t have been me, could it?

As I could quite clearly establish exactly who I was and that the lead aircraft had left early, I was released and sat myself in a corner hoping that trouble would stay away from me.  Perhaps the firemen at Valley were correct when they called me Jonah.  As we began to load I stayed with the pongo’s and hid in the rear of the aircraft.  I didn’t mind two hundred paratroopers staring at me as I was the only fecker on the aircraft in civvies.  We would have been somewhere above the Isle of Man when the captain came on the intercom and announced that as it was snowing at Wattisham, there was a chance we might have to land at Manchester and take busses to Colchester.  I promise you I was at my wits end.  After three days I had squeezed in more adventures and scrapes than many people would have throughout their whole air force career.

I had had enough and just sat back to see what would happen next.  My main worry was that I would be late back for work the following morning and another round of stupidity would commence.  I think the big fella upstairs heard me and made sure that there were no air traffickers on snow clearing duties at Wattisham.  The airfield was clear and we could land there.   I walked away from the aircraft and glanced about to make sure there were no Rock Ape laden land rovers screaming towards me.  I threw my bag into my car and checked in with the guys in air traffic, showing them that I was back and would be in work the following morning.  I was tempted to get myself around to the Families Club and sink a few beers, but I was sure if I had to engage with any more idiots that weekend I would explode.

I settled back into the routine of things and one day on my way home had been asked by Irene to call in at the doctor’s surgery to pick up her anti natal report for James, who had been born six weeks earlier.  Although we lived in a small village called Shotley Gate, there was another village, closer to Ipswich and slightly larger called Shotley.  I called in to the doctor’s surgery in Shotley and as I waited saw a notice that appealed to me.  It was gold dust as far as secondary duties were concerned.  There was a sort of prominence or pecking order for secondary duties, depending on your position and amount of time and effort you would have to put in.  To really excel at the secondary duties game you had to find something involving civilians.  Although this would just be another committee function requiring you to give up some of your spare time, working with civilians was viewed as promoting the good name and nature of the air force.

I noticed that the local amateur dramatic society was planning to produce a play and were asking for interested people to get in touch. It would certainly be a real feather in the cap if they would allow me to join in.  I took the contact details then reported to the reception desk, asking for the anti natal report for Irene.  I wasn’t sure what they were playing at as they were saying congratulations.  I thanked them and explained that James had only been kept in hospital for about a week with his jaundice and that he was now safe and happy at home.  No they said, “Congratulations, your wife is pregnant.”  I know I was capable of defending myself against most aggressors, but against a woman with a bread knife I wasn’t so sure.  My mind now juggled with my two great problems.  Firstly how to tell Irene she was with child, again, without getting stabbed and secondly, as an actor, with the loveliest legs in Ireland, should I wear a cravat or a bow tie?

Celtic Illumination, part 228, The old home town looks the same.

As Tom Jones once sang, It’s good to touch the green, green, grass of home, and it was, although I don’t think he was referring to someone face down on the ground with a fully armed Rock Ape kneeling on his head.  I have to say the Rock Apes were quite an excitable lot; even the dog was going mental.  They ripped my wallet from my rear pocket and passed my identity card around till they could find one of them who could read.  Once it was established that I was in the air force, I was helped to my feet and questioned.  It was the usual line of questioning, who are you, what are you doing here, have you ever kissed a girl and if so what was it like?  The one question they asked which had them stop and think for a moment was ‘Who gave you permission to walk across my bloody airfield?’

You know me, unable to tell a lie.  I pointed to the nasty loadmaster who was still stood standing by the nose of the Fat Albert we had just come in on.  ‘Him.’  I said.  ‘He gave me permission to walk across your airfield.’  I didn’t hang around to see if the loadmaster would, like I had, be wrestled to the ground for questioning, instead I made haste to the air operations building and stepped inside.  I simply followed my nose and made my way to the operations room.  I saw my man at a desk and went over to lean against the counter next to him and wait for him to get off the telephone.  I began to look around and as everything in the military is kept as simple as possible, it was easy to see that I was right in the centre of air operations for Northern Ireland.  The walls were covered with lots of maps, with lots of red circles.

It was just as well that I wasn’t a terrorist because listed before me in nice huge, easy to read, letters were all the call signs, frequencies, code words and

squadron locations and strengths.  That’s when I felt someone breathing down my neck.  I don’t mean that someone was standing close to me, well I do, but I could actually feel this person breath on my neck.  Probably because he was shouting at me.  I wasn’t expecting another encounter, well; not so soon after my previous one.  This fellow was a squadron leader, I quickly checked his chest and could see no indication that he was a fast jet pilot.  I was lucky enough to be meeting an air trafficker, who was in charge of the operations room.  “What are you doing in my ops room?” he screamed.  “Who gave you permission to come in to my ops room?”

I mean, I felt like telling him if his ops room was so important he should perhaps try locking the door but I kept silent, this was an air trafficker, he would already know everything.  He was going mental and insisted that I follow him to his office.  I did so and he told me to stand in the doorway facing in to his office.  I wasn’t to look at any of the information in his ops room.  He insisted that I gave him my identity card and he was going to telephone command to see if I actually had permission to be in Northern Ireland and if I didn’t, I would be placed under arrest and held in custody until the next flight back to the UK which I would be put on.  There was a war going on, Northern Ireland was a dangerous place.  It’s at times like this you look at people and wonder how on earth they became such an arse.  This was the sort of fellow who would serve six months in Northern Ireland and be given a medal, which of course he would brag about to all the pretty little things in his next unit.  What about the poor people of Northern Ireland who lived through thirty years of shit, they never got medals.

He was quite disappointed when he found out that I had permission to be there but insisted that I remain standing where I was, as he didn’t want me looking at any of the sensitive information.  I was certainly meeting all the important people that day.  I had met a Rock Ape who owned the airfield and now a failed fast jet pilot who seemed to own the operations room.  Next thing you know is that a civilian driver comes in to the operations room looking for his VIP passenger.  As a bit of a giggle, my man in Aldergrove had told MT that there was a VIP in air ops who needed driving over to the main gate.  I don’t think the idiot in charge of ops had heard what was going on, so I explained that my transport was here and I should be going.  He waved me away and I nodded in appreciation at my man, before meeting up with the driver and heading outside to the car.

It was a nice big limousine and he was a very good driver.  I thanked him as I got out at the main gate and walked over to the sanger.  The security of the airfield, inside the fence was down to the Rock Apes, or as they liked to call themselves the Royal Air Force Regiment.  Outside the perimeter security was down to the army so I now found myself standing with some army bods, or as we liked to call them, pongo’s.  Why?  Because everywhere the army goes the pong goes.  As the pongo’s on guard had seen me get out of a VIP limousine they assumed that I must have been some sort of dignitary and reacted accordingly, saluting me and offering me a seat in their sanger.  All I had wanted to do was nip home for two days and have a quick beer with Fegan and Rogan but this journey was certainly turning into a farce, by the way that’s an Irish farce not a French farce, no vicars losing their trousers in this one.  Well apart from the pervert priest who was picking me up.

One of the pongos came over and asked who, or what, I was waiting for.  I said that a priest was on his way for me and told him what sort of car I was expecting and the name of the pervert priest.  Next thing you know is that the pongo is on the radio, blowing this information out to all the road blocks in the local area.  Thankfully five minutes later the pervert priest arrived with a certain look of astonishment on his face.  I say thankfully, for while sitting in the sangar I felt that I was sitting in the centre of a target and felt quite uncomfortable.  One of the pongos went over and opened the passenger door for me.  I really did not expect him to salute me as I got into the car and wished that I had a safe journey.  As we drove off the pervert priest looked at me and asked ‘What exactly is it that you do in the air force?’ and I hadn’t the heart to tell him.  Seems that he had joined a queue of cars at a road block and was waiting his turn when he noticed the soldiers point at him and run toward his car.  Normally priests were asked to give the last rights to those dying or dead and he wondered what was going on as the pongo rapped on his window.

Once established that it was the pervert priest he was waved forward and through the road blocks and found that he was the only car moving on the road as all other road blocks leading to Aldergrove held their traffic and waved him through.  I was so looking forward to having a quite beer with the boys and to try and forget the events of the day when the pervert priest explained that I was not going to Warrenpoint.  It was a little ‘lively’ there at the moment.  The British had their secret services, informers and spies collecting information and sometimes paying for it, but I had the church and knew that after confession on a Saturday night the priests knew more about what was going on in the North of Ireland than the whole spy network put together.  If this priest, pervert or not, was saying that Warrenpoint was a little ‘lively’ at the moment, then I could take his word as gospel.

I was going to Lurgan where I would be staying with my cousin Paul.  My mother was already there.  This was certainly going to be an interesting day or two for Paul was a leading solicitor in Lurgan who had a reputation for defending IRA men in the courts.  On top of that he didn’t like anyone speaking English in his house.  At least I knew most of the IRA men in Warrenpoint and felt safe enough among them, but I only knew a few of the Lurgan guys, who I had been to school with.  It was only then I started to feel that perhaps this trip had not been a very good idea, but it was a wee bit late to be turning back now.  I sat back and enjoyed my drive through the Irish countryside and began to recall as much of the Irish language as I could remember.

Celtic Illumination, part 227, Cead mile failte.

So; at last, I am able now to actually tell you what Tim Lort was talking to me about on the telephone when he rang me on the seventeenth of April, nineteen eighty five, at twenty three minutes past one in the afternoon.  Well; Tim had just got married, big posh naval themed wedding in South Welsh Wales, don’t know if I mentioned it or not, but some ceremonial swords had gone missing.  Don’t for one moment think that Tim actually considered that I had the swords, moi?  Tim wondered if they may have accidentally been left in my car or if some of the others may have taken them for safe keeping.  I can’t actually mention the name of the person Tim thought might have the swords as he has already contacted me and asked not to be named in this blog again, unless he is given a ridiculous amount of money, probably to buy more buttons for his pearly suit.

Some of you may be wondering what I was doing in flight planning if I was running the air traffic control shift, well; let me explain.  At the start of every shift you would make sure that all your people were actually at work and then allocate them different positions.  Ten or fifteen minutes later you would hope that everyone was in position and had relieved their predecessor, but just to be on the safe side you would take a bit of a wander around.  As well as checking air traffic control you would nip into the met office just to see who was on duty, then take a turn through air operations and flight planning.  This would give you an overall picture of what was happening and what you might expect later on in the day.

It was during one of these wanders, and it would have been a Thursday, that I noticed on the following day we had a number of Hercules transport aircraft coming in.  They were flying on to Aldergrove in Northern Ireland, an hour or two later on the Friday, and planned to come back on the Sunday evening.  The following day I came to work with an overnight bag just in case there was a chance I could nip home for the weekend.  The Hercules were moving the Colchester garrison to Belfast and would be returning on the Sunday with a few hundred paratroopers.  When the captain of the lead Hercules came to air traffic to submit his flight plans I asked if there were any spare seats.  He suggested that if I complete and submit the flight plans for all the Hercules then I would be more than welcome to fly with them. 

I completed and submitted the flight plans but then went to see O C Operations and asked if he would contact the security people at command and get me permission to go into Northern Ireland.  All it took was a quick telephone call and my flying visit was approved.   I then telephoned my mother to see if I could come home for a couple of nights.  Not only could I come home for a couple of nights but she would arrange transport for me from Aldergrove.  I didn’t really mind that it was going to be the pervert priest who was to pick me up but this was a long time before the whole nightmare exploded and I suppose I still thought that he was my father.  As I said before I had always been told, time and time again, as if they enjoyed it, that my mother had died giving birth to me and that my father, in their words, a recently qualified professional, had gone abroad to fulfil a contract he had been awarded and thought it best that I remain in Ireland with the nuns.

It would be a long time before I would find out that this was actually a snatch squad of battle hardened Carmelite nuns who were tasked with not just protecting me but introducing me to the rigorous training that would prepare me to become the greatest King of Ireland, ever, but I digress.  The pervert priest had been a research physicist for the ministry of defence in England before he donned the dog collar, so in a sort of ‘Sound of music’ way I believed he had become a priest as a sort of penance or act of contrition, I’m not sure, but I ‘m sure you get my drift.  I actually spoke to the pervert priest who was with my mother at the time I had called and asked him for details of his motor car so that I could keep an eye out for him.  I told him I would meet him at the main gate at RAF Aldergrove and I told him what time I was due to arrive there.

The lead captain had been lounging around in air traffic collecting the names and contact numbers of some of the pretty young things, some of whom were female.  I changed in to my civvies and we wandered over to the aircraft.   Loads of soldiers in cabbage gear were being loaded up in the rear of the aircraft but the captain insisted that I get up front with the crew, it wouldn’t be fair to put me in the boot with the pongo’s, you never knew what I might catch.  A loadmaster was standing by the front door of the aircraft and as I approached he asked me what I thought I was doing.  I explained that I was flying with them to Aldergrove and he said that only aircrew went up front I could get to the rear of the aircraft and fly with the pongo’s.

I made my way to the rear of the aircraft and the loadmaster there, supervising the loading, asked me what I wanted.  I explained that I was flying with them to Aldergrove and he told me to go to the front of the aircraft and get in with the crew.  I had been in situations like this before and refused to be any persons bouncing ball so I climbed on board, through the rear door, and made my way through the aircraft, and now seated pongo’s, and entered the cabin.  The captain welcomed me and asked me to sit on the seat at the rear of the cabin which I did.  Next thing you know is the loadmaster, yes the one who had told me to get in the boot with the pongos, comes in, but he is too busy bowing and scraping to notice me.  The colonel of the regiment is flying over with his boys so he is to sit up front with the crew.

It was as the loadmaster showed the colonel where to sit, which was next to the fellow with the loveliest legs in Ireland, me, that I was noticed and steam began to come out of his ears.  Well; not literally, but you know what I mean.  Seems that I was in his seat and he was going to have to stand for the duration of the flight or else go in the back and sit with the pongo’s.  The colonel and I shook hands and settled in, for normal conversation wasn’t going to be possible with the noise of the aircraft.  Once airborne the loadmaster, who was standing in the doorway scowling at me, was told by the captain to issue meals and drinks.  Everyone was given a plastic tray with a hot meal on except for the colonel who was given a cup of tea, in a china cup with saucer, and a nice little plate of sandwiches that even had a paper doily.  All I got was nasty looks a-la-loadmaster.

The captain asked if there was not a spare meal that I could have and the loadmaster said that there were none left at which point the colonel offered to share his sandwiches with me.  And I think it almost killed the loadmaster when the captain suggested that he could at least give me a cup of tea.  We landed at Aldergrove and I thanked the captain and assured him I would be on time on the Sunday.  I stepped from the aircraft and noticed that the pongo’s were streaming out the rear of the aircraft on to busses.  A guy who had been on my shift at Wattisham was now at Aldergrove working in operations and I had contacted him and asked him to help me get from the aircraft to the main gate. Which he assured me he would, all I had to do was make my way to air operations after landing.

I looked about and saw the air operations compound, it was only five or six hundred yards away but I would have to cross a taxiway to get there.  I could see that the taxi way lights were on so I knew that it was a live taxiway.  I would need to get permission to cross it from air traffic.  I could see the nasty loadmaster standing by the aircraft, but he was wearing a headset which was plugged in to the aircraft.  I went over to him and asked if he could get permission for me to walk across the taxiway to air operations.  What I expected is that he would ask the crew in the cockpit, who could ask air traffic.  The loadmaster told me to go so off I went.

I skipped across the taxiway, even though I knew nothing was moving in the area, nothing expect for two land rovers that were screaming across the airfield.  I could see that it was the reaction force, different units have different names for them quick reaction force, military reaction force, whatever, but the function was always the same, to stop intruders.  I knew some poor sod was in for it as they really were hammering along, but it was only when I found myself spread eagled on the deck, getting patted down, with an Alsatian threatening to take my ears off, that I realised that I was the poor sod they were after.  Cead mile failte, my arse.