This is the updated saga of my careering career. Made redundant 5 times and counting I'm now in a job paying 66% less than I was earning three years ago and so bored I could, frankly, scream. I have set myself a 30 day plan to write a poem each day. Think these are bad? You should see the ones I didn't publish.
There was a time, not so long ago, when a chap could come home from working at t'mill, ploughing the fields, defending the country from hoards of hostile foreigners, policing the riots and throw your dirty clothes into the washing machine, throw in a bucket of Daz, set at 'Whites boil', leave it for three hours and stuff the lot into the tumble dryer set at 'The moisture content of a stone left out in the Sahara for a month'. Then just 30 seconds each item with the steam iron set at '. . . . .' and there you go ready for a night out on the town, as sophisticated as George Clooney or Fred Astaire. But now I'm setting the washing machine at 30C, separating the completed washing into delicates, talking gently to them and smoothing them out over a collapsible dryer of the type my Mum used to use many years ago and setting the tumble dryer to different temperatures for the balance. And ironing, ironing has become an exercise in categorisation, one blob, two blobs, three blobs with steam and do on. I have to wait between categories for the iron to cool down between blobs. Yes I know I could do the cooler ones first and progressively move up the temperature range but you still have to wait for the optimum temperature. I bet we all have one item of a delicate nature where the iron was at the wrong temperature and there is a small patch of fused fabric that is forever shiny. And it's always where you can see it isn't it, never out of sight? I suppose it's all that Lycra, modern fabrics that 'wick away' all the yukky stuff that came with polyester shirts and nylon sheets. And a good thing too. I remember the equivalent of Niagara pouring down my back on hot days when wearing polyester shirts as part of the uniform at one of the places I worked. The shirt would be stuck to your back by the end of the day and have to be peeled off when you got home. What a tremendous feeling it was to put your sweaty back against the car seat for the drive home. The world must have been a smellier place even then. So the price of progress is more time spent washing, ironing, sorting and checking the care of every piece of fabric that comes into the house. Until that is, the item of clothing is so old you no longer really care and just stick it in the normal wash cycle just to see what happens. I have several older Austin Reed wool jumpers whose washing instructions say they need to be washed in the pure water of the Andes mountains high in the foothills by indigenous people using a unique lava stone found only in that locale then laid out flat in indirect sunlight coming only from the East. Nah, goes in the normal wash with the other stuff, 5 blobs steam iron.
I had no intention of starting a war. Well who does? I was just developing a strong interest in girls. Armaggedon would be a major obstacle.
We had to join the CCF, the Combined Cadet Force. There was no alternative between 13 and 17 years old. That’s what my all boys public school insisted and that’s what you did. The only choice was the Army or the RAF. Actually memory fails me. There was another choice. If you insisted on growing your hair long (and long in those days meant it was touching your shirt collar and falling over the tips of your ears), could be tucked behind your ears (if you really tried), blew your hand off trying to make an improvised explosive device in your Dad’s shed and had been interviewed by the Police for smoking weed on school premises then you were excused parade and could go and do extracurricular studies. Extracurricular studies meant keeping out of the way of the Head Teacher by staying in a dank basement on Friday afternoons when the rest of us pretended to be soldiers. The Head, who took great pride in the CCF, took no pride at all in these two. And that’s all it was, two males who he despised with all his soul. These two males represented all that was abhorrent about pupils that came to his school on a scholarship. By not paying the outrageous fees and coming in on the public purse they were fundamentally some way below the salt. If they had been Right Honourables there might have been some pleading based on mitigating circumstances, i.e. they were bonkers due to in inbreeding, but as it were they were, well, just common. Meritocracy was not a philosophy the Head endorsed. There was one other way of avoiding the CCF. That was to have the surname Brest. David Brest combined a number of unfortunate characteristics that made him the target for every bigot and bully in the school. In a public school that meant a substantial number of boys both older and younger wanted a piece of him on a daily basis. It included a good proportion of the teachers as well. David was simultaneously;
Had a surname that most amusingly sounded the same as breast. A woman’s actual breast. Hilarious for the first 500 times at least.
Hopeless at sport
The most physically uncoordinated person I’ve ever known.
Talk about having a target painted on you back saying ‘Taunt me mercilessly, make my every hour a waking misery at school, use my religion as having a natural association with being homosexual, push me around whenever you like. And don’t make friends with me either because that taints you with my imagined inadequacies.’ And that was just the teachers. I’m sorry David. I hope you made it through. David was excused duties probably on the basis that the Israelis had already proved themselves in the 7 day war in 1967 and might be a bit rough for young Tommy Atkins.
I joined the RAF. I wanted to fly and it seemed likely that I could do exactly that in the RAF. There were rumours that you would fly in helicopters in the Army but I wanted the real stuff. With wings, jets and fighter pilots. I also desperately wanted to fire big guns, especially machine guns, but was less sure that the RAF would allow that. It was all high level stuff with the fly boys, fire and forget from 30,000 feet, not up close and personal with the army. Admittedly the Army guys started firing SLR rifles almost from day one. And learnt how to fix bayonets. Amazingly we had our own armoury at the school. It was stocked with a fair amount of ammunition, .303s allegedly from the 1st WW, Martini action rifles, several Sten guns and Bren guns which we used to carry around the streets. Oh those public school boys – automatic weapons perfectly safe in their hands and allowed to carry bladed articles attached to rifles at 14. It took a year before I fired the bigger gun. But what a gun that was.
I was good at the military thing. I couldn’t catch a rugby ball to save my life, cricket was a mystery and misery but when it came to the armed forces, well it was a whole new world. I could shine my hobnail boots up a treat, blanco and webbing, Brasso and belts were no problem. Marching? I could march. The manager of the school Tuck Shop was ex-military and also ex right leg. He, as Sergeant Major, would drill us on the school parade ground whilst pivoting on his one leg and I became so adept at marching I became the Right Marker for years. The Right Marker is the lynch pin in the whole marching in straight lines bit. The others might be falling over, turning the wrong way, swinging both arms in the same direction at the same time but there I was keeping it all together. Often by myself.
But back to WW3.
Each year we were all required to go on an annual camp with the military arm we were with. This particular year we were to go to Germany, to an RAF forward base. A base, we were briefed, that was on the front line with the Commies. So close to the Commies would we be that we would see the whites of their Commie eyes when not perpetually drunk on Vodka distilled from turnips, peer into their empty shops and empty lives and see their ugly women all who had beards and false teeth yet who would try and have their way with us. This description wasn't viewed by us a deterrent to ‘having their way’. At 15 we weren't picky, just desperate. We weren't told exactly what the Commies did, except they were inherently evil, did not have public schools, probably cheated at rugger, did not play cricket, were all gay and not in a happy way. This proved to be a little of a misrepresentation of the truth as we ended up at RAF Laarbruch on the Dutch/German border. This represented quite a challenge as we were also told, in confidence, that it was an RAF nuclear base. Now we know that nuclear meant a biggish bang should the wheels come off if the political processes failed and the tanks started rolling. Certainly bigger than the flash grenades we used in training to simulate incoming shell fire. But probably not big enough to stop us coming home after the 10 days on the camp as we were actually some way from the front line and didn't they know that, even at 15, we were bred with the stiff upper lips of the officer class? We knew nothing of the defcom status. We’d not been told about the Cuban crisis. We knew nothing of Vulcan bombers and B52s sitting on runways, engines idling, waiting to go and never come back. We just knew that we were to have 10 days in Germany on an RAF base staying in normal dormitories instead of under canvas as in previous years. We also knew the food was great and no one cared how old we were in the camp bars. What could go wrong?
We arrived and were shown to the dormitories. It went wrong immediately. As we unpacked a squaddie came into the room and started swearing at us. He was spectacularly drunk but also exceptionally well versed in expletive depletives. He wanted to fight us collectively or individually it didn’t matter to him. We, as a group, turned as one to look at Ian. Ian was built like a Challenger tank. Ian was growing a full beard at 11. Ian was the Incredible Hulk though a lot less green. Ian hit the squaddie once and floored him. After that we had no more trouble with any of the squaddies. But we stayed very close to Ian for the 10 days, he being our personal deterrent against aggression from our own side – sort of school boy friendly fire. The time away gave me an opportunity to try my German. Let loose in the local town one night we, of course, went drinking. We needed the toilets urgently between venues. In my best German I asked a passer-by for the location of the nearest toilet and he indicated a building nearby. It indeed had a toilet. It was also the local brothel and that provided a frisson of excitement for several minutes – but we all left after being allowed to use the loos. At least I think we all left at the same time. I can’t say I counted everyone out.
The camp was great. No marching, more food than we could eat and, as hungry teenagers we could eat for Queen and country, no restriction on drinking, plenty of sightseeing and we got to fire machine guns. Well to be precise light machine guns on a firing range at silhouettes of men that looked suspiciously like the cartoon drawings of the perfidious Hun in our ‘Victor’ and ‘Hurricane’ comics. Even then, in what wasn't actually deepest Germany, it struck me as somewhat ironic. However in just a few days we’d got drunk several times, been out and about on trips around the base, been to a brothel and fired guns. This seemed to be many Christmas’s all at once.
The base hosted many Bloodhound missiles or so it seemed. These enabled the RAF to engage enemy aircraft at some considerable range and destroy them. The Bloodhounds were held in secure compounds within the main base and just sat on their launchers, sort of brooding. They, as I recall, all seemed to point in the same way towards East Germany like giant thick index fingers presenting the military equivalent of giving the bird to the enemy.
As a climax to the 10 days we were to be given a tour of the Bloodhound site. We were sworn to secrecy by the officer giving the briefing. We would be followed and every conversation bugged. If we divulged what we saw we would disappear, for ever, to a remote, inhospitable location where no one ever went for the rest of our pathetic lives. I think it was Aberystwyth. We were told about the range, accuracy and need for the missiles. How they were manned night and day and when they would be fired and by whom. It was a double key decision as I recall – you needed two to fire the missiles. Or could one person fire two missiles? I can’t remember. It was all very exciting. Possibly more exciting than the brothel, though as that was our first brothel that had been quite exciting and permitted serious bragging rights. All we wanted to do was see the Control room. All the political stuff went over our heads. We wanted bangs and rockets, a giant fireworks night, light the blue touch paper and stand well back. From Russia.
Outside the large radar dishes revolved unceasingly. An officer directed us through substantial metal doors, down a ramp into the control room set underground not far from the missile nest. Dark, lit only by the large, circular green screens of the radar panels and red lights on the walls, the room hummed with the sound of electrical components. The radars looked like very large dinner plates with a white line sweeping around the diameter of the screen every few seconds. White blobs appeared on the screen with letters and numbers assigned to them. The blobs moved slowly across the screen like small luminous woodlice as the radar sweep continued. The officer with us directed me to sit at a radar screen. I gleefully obliged and turned to look at the screen. This radar, the officer explained, scanned the horizon for unidentified aircraft. All friendly aircraft had an ident number, the number we could see on the screen next to the white woodlice. This included civilian and military aircraft. Anything that wasn't a friendly would not have an ident number next to it. It would be an evil woodlouse. So far so good. Arranged around the screen were toggle switches, dials, knobs (and not just the cadets) and other flashing lights. You know the sort you see in the background in early James Bond films or, possibly, Stingray. Well, stuff whirred, flashed and generally made all sorts of satisfactory noises. And there, on the console, were a number of BIG RED switches with covers and the words ‘FIRE CONTROL’ on them. And I knew that didn't mean they controlled a log fire in a nearby grate. The officer went on to tell us about the deterrent effect of the Bloodhounds, their range, explosive capacity, homing ability and the fact that they all had ‘Take that you Commie Bastard’ painted on the side of them. This was clearly pre ‘Gotcha’ days, when invective was an early developmental stage. The officer got me to demonstrate how you could alter the range of the radar, from say 200 miles out, to 100 miles out, to 50 miles out to 'might as well go outside and look up at the sky as there it is. Was. Bang.'
I toggled and turned knobs as told and then…
…he suddenly stiffened, looked at the screen and said ‘What’s that?’
I looked and, at the very extremity of the screen, was a woodlouse with no name. Therefore it was evil.
‘Lock on to that, that shouldn't be there.’
I pressed the ‘lock on’ button and the radar indicated a possible bogey. Not that sort of bogey, though we were still school boys so who knows (nose). Some sniggering prevailed.
The bogey was heading towards the centre of the radar and moving quite a bit faster than the other aircraft with ident numbers.
‘Change the radar scale’ he commanded.
I did so, the bogey was still coming in our direction like the school bully who had identified David Brest in the room.
‘This is not good, arm the missiles.’
‘What? I mean WHAT Sir?'
‘Do it, arm the missiles.’
I flicked the ‘Arm’ missile switches. A sea of indicator buttons turned red, gauges flickered. Everyone was very quiet. Very, very quiet now.
‘Change the radar scale again.’
The white blob was considerably closer now. I didn’t like the look of this. Things weren't going well.
‘We need to fire the missiles, unlock the fire buttons.’ I must have hesitated. ‘Well do it son.’
And I did so. I’d armed a number of Bloodhound missiles, unlocked the big red ‘FIRE’ button and didn't think to ask shouldn't someone somewhere need to ask permission before we shot down an enemy? Especially as I was only 15, clearly should have spent more time in the brothel if this was all the time left to me and wasn't this going to mess up my A levels?
‘No time left. Fire 1 and 2.’
And I did, I pressed the BIG RED fire buttons for missiles 1 and 2. Surprisingly easy to launch several tons of high explosive at an enemy at over Mach 1 with the express intention of killing them.
The room shook with the detonation and roar of the rockets firing and lifting off and then, on the radar screen two traces made their way very quickly from the centre of the screen towards the incoming aircraft and then converged. All three disappeared off the radar.
I was speechless in horror. I’d just shot down a Russian aircraft. At this moment NATO has just gone to status ‘Good grief what was that, that’s ruined our golf game this afternoon, best crack on then, make some tea will you.’
I looked around at the rest of the group. They looked at me with a ‘He did it Sir, it was him, he started the nuclear conflagration’ sort of look. No schoolboy honour here, I was well and truly grassed up.
The officer remained silent for a few moments. He looked around at the group his face grave and troubled.
Then he said ‘Best bloody simulator in the RAF this. Time for lunch I think.’