4427

I worked at a chicken factory between 1985 and 1990. I did a number of roles, but when I did leave, I had good prospects and had been offered a salaried position in junior management.

But dreamed of wider horizons.

One of my friends from the factory was James, and he had a friend, Jonathan, who had joined the RAF as a Motor Transport (MT) driver. Jon made life in the mob so attractive, James went to apply to join, and in 1989, he did so.

The weekend before he was due to join, we met at Normanston Park to run round the perimeter path to see how long it would take to run one and a half miles. The only metric you had to pass was to run said distance in under 11 minutes.

Not hard.

James and I were not the fittest. I had lost a lot of weight, so thought, how hard could running be?

Turned out it was very hard indeed. It didn't help it was a hot day, one of those late summer days with endless sunshine, no winds and roasting temperatures people in their 50s says its not like any more.

You know.

James and I realised he was going to struggle in joining to pass this mark. James did join and it took some months before he did run just under 11 minutes and was able to complete his basic training.

In the meantime, I had also applied to join. My parents were on holiday: I had already applied, so took a day off work and went up to Norwich for an interview at the Careers Information Office (CIO) and to complete an aptitude test. I did well in the test, and like James, being an MT driver was below our results. But I stuck to my guns and said I would join as a driver.

Though there was no requirements at that time. I would have to wait for the trade to open up.

James had joined as an armourer. This involved trade training after basic training; education too, theory courses and tests. Practical tests. Before being allowed into the "real Air Force" after finishing and passing the course. No one tells you that an Armourer earns more than an MT driver. Not that it matters until you join, but over a career, the difference is huge.

I did not know this.

In the meantime, I had to tell my parents I had applied to join. Mum was horrified, that her little boy was going to leave home. But it comes to us all, even only children.

I knew I had to get fit. So, I drove in my car having set the tripmeter to zero to measure out 1.5 miles. THis was to be my route for the next nine months of training.

Down Kesgrave Drive, along Hadleigh Drive, down Woods Loke West, then along Higher Drive to the end, then up past the park on Normanston Park, up Fir Lane, finally sharp left into Woods Loke East, reaching the mile and a half point where the road ended at the footpath over the new spine road.

I ran this every day, pretty much, some days doing better than before, sometimes not. It was a race of me against the watch on my wrist.

I became a regular sight for people along the route, getting quicker and quicker. Until one time, I did it, I broke the 11 minute barrier. But I pressed on, and once I had got my time down to ten minutes, I began to run longer, now going along Oulton Road and down through Pound Farm Estate to reach home.

Winter turned to spring, and I am contacted by CIO: MT driver trade would not be opening in the foreseeable future, did I want to give up or choose another trade?

I went in and we talked about things, I said my friend was an armourer, that sounds interesting? Well, my test results meant I was suitable. "I'll book you in for a formal interview and we can tell you all about the trade and you can decide. OK?"

OK.

I am sure that was the agreement. Because what happened next came as a surprise.

I cam home from work, having walked for an hour after getting off the bus in Lowestoft for some additional phys, and there was a letter from the MOD waiting.

Congratulations on your application to join the RAF as a Aircraft (Weapons) mechanic, you will join the RAF on July 4th 1990, joining instructions will be sent separately.

Or something like that.

No application, no interview. Just join the RAF.

The next morning i went to work, and was called into Nev's office for a chat. I had done well as a section controller, they wanted to promote me (including being on salary so they could get lots of unpaid overtime). It was a good thing, and Nev really wanted me to do it, he had mentored me after the issues I had had since leaving the quality department.

So, I had a choice: RAF or chickens.

I chose the Air Force, and told him on the spot I was joining the RAF so could not take the promotion. Nev did not take it well, he did not speak to me again. But then he was ex-Army, and had an impressive Army issue tashe, in the end, him not speaking to me any more would not be in issue.

On June 19th 1990, I went with a friend to see Prince in concert for the second time. He wasn't as good as on the Lovesexy tour, and so I drove back to Suffolk, disappointed.

We parked in Woodford, had caught the Tube to Wembley and back, so the drive home was just up the A12, which was being improved near Ipswich, with new junctions being put in at Capel St. Mary.

It was sometime after midnight, I was driving with my friend, Richard, asleep in the passenger seat, and either I got confused in the road works, or I fell asleep momentarily.

The road ended, and my Ford Cortina leapt into the air and crash landed into a pike of hard core. We were not going that fast, but stopping so suddenly thanks to the crash hurt. As people say, t took place in slow motion, and I can remember the back of the car lifting up, but the weigt and size of the car meant it didn't flip over.

The car banged back down on its wheels.

A woman stopped on the main carriageway and shouted: "I haven't seen an accident before!". I replied, quite lucidly: "I haven't been involved in an accident either!".

Another driver offered to take me to the nearby garage to call the AA, then take me back to the car while we waited.

The AA arrived in ten minutes, pulled the car out, gave it an inspection, and in his opinion, the car was bent, but drive-able. But take it easy.

So we set off. Hard core fell from the car as we drove along, it made quite the noise. And at the same time my thumb began to ache.

Badly.

We got home, I dropped Richard off then went home.

I went to bed at about three, but was awake shortly after seven as my hand was bloody painful. My parents had both gone to work, and couldn't drive anyway. The lady over the road took me to A&E in Gorlestone, where I got an x-ray.

"Almost certainly" not broken I was told, but they put on an arm cast just in case, and said to come back in two weeks and they would take the cast off, re-do the x-ray and see when the swelling had gone down.

As soon as the cast was on, no pain. So, why bother the CIO with this, I would have the cast off a week before joining, and all would be fine.

I even carried on running, getting my time lower and lower.

Then on 27th June I went to have the cast off and the x-ray.

I was in good spirits, all was set for me to join up the next week. I was walking on air.

My cast was cut off, and my hand hurt. I mean really hurt. I had the x-ray, and the not unsurprising news was that I had a broken bone. A tiny bone. But broken.

It would take 6 weeks at least to heal, they put on a new cast, and once home I had to all the CIO and explain.

I was beyond distressed, all that I had worked so hard for, pushed myself for, and I saw my bright future being replaced with nothing but racks and racks of chckens back at the factory.

The sergeant could tell I was upset: leave it with him he said. Don't worry he said. A couple of hours he called back, he had swapped my entrance date with a guy from Norwich; he would take my place next week, and I would take his in September, more than enough time for the arm to heal.

Panic over.

All through the summer, the World Cup was on, Italia 90. Not only was I still joining the RAF but I would not go back to the factory until the doctor said it was OK to. So I was on sick all through the World Cup, so I would spend afternoons in pubs around the town, watching games whilst drinking pints of fizzy lager.

It was a wonderful summer. Even better, England actually got quite good and made it to the semi-finals. I would train in the mornings, spend the afternoons in pubs or on the sofa, then the evenings in more pubs or round friends, watching the games. One drunken night, watching England beat Belgium in the final minute of extra time. We rushed into town to spend the night dancing to house music and rare groove tunes.

Fast forward to late summer, and the cast was removed. My writ ached. All the time.

I had to have a medical with an Army doctor to prove i was fit enough to join still.

My wrist continued to ache, badly at times, until the day of the medical exam, where it was fine. I had to travel to Norwich, then to the Army Careers office where I waited with all the potential Pongos to see the quack. He read my notes, asked how I felt. I lied and said there had been no pain.

He did not believe me.

Grip his hand, he said, and squeeze as hard as you can. I looked into my eyes all the time. I squeezed and stared at him back. I did not flinch.

He passed me.

So I was free to join.

Phew.

Into September and my GP was happy to sign me up on sick right up to when I was due to join, so I called in the factory to hand my sick note in, hand my notice in too, so clear out my locker.

I did not look back.

However, at any point that year, things could have gone so differently, and had they not done so, I would not be here, sitting on this horse talking to you.

So it goes, so it goes.

I joined up one early autumn morning, went to the CIO with my Granddad to swear my oath of allegiance, get my rail warrant to take me to Newark the next morning. I was stood down for the rest of the day, but get packed and ready for your new life.

We went back to Oulton Broad. I packed my bags, checked I had everything, then met Richard at the Fighting Cocks pub once he had finished for the day at the factory, and we got very, very drunk. I was never that person, that civilian again.