Saturday 3rd August 2019

Most of my former RAF colleagues joined up pretty much straight from school, going from one institution to another.

I saw more childish behaviour and schoolboy humour than I did when I was at school.

The thought that we were working with some of the most deadly substances on earth, and yet acted so carefree, is quite frightening.

As well as having a laugh all the time, something else was expected: socialising.

Socialising meant going to the bar and drinking.

The harder the work, the harder the drinking. Up to the millennium, non-socialises were marked down on their annual assessment. So, the more stress people were under, the more they drank and were encouraged to drink.

In addition, the higher in rank a person went, in general, the cheaper the booze and the more they could drink.

There was a drying out facility on the outskirts of Swindon for those with drink problems, I know one guy went there three times.

RAF Germany was even worse, all the above applied, but with the added bonus that booze was even cheaper, and people had more time to drink in and as there was no "live" TV service, socialising was the norm.

Now, I like a drink. I won't lie. But know my limits, and can say that since leaving the RAF I have been drunk maybe twice. Whereas in the RAF that could be a monthly, or on detachment, a weekly or even daily thing. I knew when to stop, and my party piece would be to buy a round, say I was going to the little armourer's room, and go straight to bed.

I did this. A lot.

I have seen many fine people, and their and their families lives ruined by drink.

Neil was three ranks above me, but in the RAF that counted for little, especially out of work. He and his family were also Norwich fans. Many times we would meet up before and after games at home and away. A couple of times, I saw Neil "going for it". One time in the Prince Albert in Norwood before a game, where I got a round in, took two sips of mine, turn round to see Neil had downed his and was back at the bar.

His wife, Jill, looked on.

Again, at Burnley, we went to the cricket club behind Turf Moor, found they had Wobbly on draft, and sank four pints each before kick off. After the game, which we won 5-2 or something, we arranged to meet in the bar of the hotel at seven. At half five he rang me begging me to go to the bar. We drank until gone ten.

That was then.

Neil, it turned out, was a bit of a shit. Left his wife and daughter and went to live and work in the Middle East, found a new love, and was building a house on a beach in Bali.

Meanwhile his ex-wife and daughter lived in poverty in a small flat in Portsmouth.

Neil's house was nearly done, and he could retire with his new wife to their dream house. But his body gave out.

He suffered massive internal organ failure, and died a few days later without regaining consciousness.

I have to reconcile the Neil I knew and the Neil who would abandon his family.

His family, wife and daughter, have to reconcile the man they loved, could do this, was now dead.

So, that was the scene for Saturday.

We woke up in our adequate hotel room, had an adequate shower and got dressed, then went down for an adequate breakfast before leaving for the last half hour drive to the crematorium.

For a place to say farewell to friends and loved ones, it was nice. Landscaped gardens, wildlife pool, and a non-denominational chapel.

A former colleague, Roy, had just pulled up, so we greeted each other and hugged. We were both older and life-battled.

Elsewhere, small groups of people gathered, those who knew each other.

A few more people arrived, and we walked to the chapel where we were told to sit down before Neil's arrival.

I knew a few more faces, one chap recognised me, and turns out he forget my name too.

We went to sit and wait for the hearse to arrive.

When the family filed in, Jill and Alex sat two rows in front of me. I was so relived both were OK, and well, alive. Jill had had a cancer scare last time i heard, and although she beat it, you never know.

She was fine, or looked it.

Neil was brought in, words were said. Then an account of Neil's life, written by Jill, or she had input.

How refreshing to have an honest appraisal, and talked of Neil's demons.

We put two and two together and were, sadly, right.

He former RAF colleagues talked of socialising and other such words to mean drinking.

A gentleman it was said.

We did not know the full picture until we spoke to Jill afterwards, but the honesty was great.

The last post was sounded, the standards lowered, and Neil's last journey was set to begin.

To the bar above his colleagues had said. Hmmmmmm.

That was that.

We drove to the local British Legion place for a wake of sorts, one where most of us could have just the one drink to toast Neil. And a spread of a finger buffet.

We stood outside, and Jill saw me and was so nice.

I guess that we saw Jill as being an equal to Neil, as we were fans and friends first, whereas most of the other guys knew Jill through Neil.

We were both hugged by Jill and Alex, they hoped we were going to be there. And in time, Jools and I were filled in with the details of their lives.

Alex is no longer 11, she is 28, and doing her Masters in forensics, specialising in finger prints. I wiped by beer glass.

We promised to stay in touch, but we had a four hour drive south, so we had to leave, and that meant driving down the M6, round the M42 and M25 to home.

It would be a long afternoon, four hours if we were lucky.

But it was a fine afternoon, and football and cricket on the radio.

Jools snoozed and I listened to the radio.

We ate the miles up, and travel was good until we reached Heathrow and were stuck in traffic for an hour, inching along until we passed the m3 junction.

From there on, we had a clear run, back into Kent and down the motorway to home.

The cats were waiting, of course. I fed them, Jools opened the windows, then we made a brew and sat down outside, knackered.

Phew.

We made a quick dinner of crispbakes and stir fry and noodles.

And were even more pooped.

We toasted Neil. And Jill and Alex.

You never really know someone, do you?