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EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING IT SO WHY SHOULDN'T I?
Ten things that I say everyday : 1. Thank you Nine things that I look forward to : 1. The end of winter and the onset of high summer Eight things that I wear daily : 1. Gucci Watch Seven things that annoy me : 1. People who phone and say "Can you confirm your postcode and name please?" Six things that I touch everyday : 1. My keyboard Five movies that I could watch again and again : 1. Amelie Four of my fave songs : 1. Coldplay - The Scientist Three people who I want to spend more time with : 1. P - My wife Two CDs that I listened to last : 1. Ministry of Sound Old Skool Club Classics One person that I would spend the rest of my life with : 1. P - the Lady I would willingly lay down my life for. |
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2.1.04 12:16 |
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GUARDIAN ANGEL
I wrote in December of an incident a couple of years ago which left me feeling like I was being watched over by a Guardian Angel. In essence, whilst riding my motorcycle, I was involved in a collision with a pedestrian. The incident was witnessed by police who took the pedestrian to task and had him agree to pay for the considerable damage to my bike. Of greater surprise was the fact that the man was as good as his word, paying me in full without question within a week of the accident. All's well that ends well then. However, I had cause to be profoundly grateful to him again when our paths crossed inexpicably and unexpectedly just six months later. My Guardian Angel was looking out for me again although I have reason to believe that she's not averse to overlooking the odd self-induced calamity or error of judgement due to alcohol. I shall explain. Back in January 2002, about 30 of us had arranged a night out after work in London, one of those 'boys and girls welcome, bring a few mates, let's really get the New Year off to a great start' kinda things. It arose out of that sinking feeling that we all have on returning to work after the festive period and whereby nothing of note seems to be planned and there's a desert stretching across the months until your social calender looks remotely interesting. I knew it was going to be a long, drink-fuelled evening so many of us had taken the afternoon of the Friday concerned off of work so as to get a head start on those arriving later in the evening. I'd selected my beer clothes with care, going to work in one of my older suits - a cunning idea which really comes into its own when alcohol robs one of the co-ordination necessary for some of lifes more complex tasks - like walking, going to the toilet, etc. Trouble is, it was a cold, cold day and I don't possess an overcoat in my wardobe of beer clothes - just a £600 full length Hugo Boss affair in cashmere. I wore that and hoped. Smart move, right? So I get to the pub (The Eastern Monk in Houndsditch) and I see our group already there. It's heaving in there, you can hardly move and getting to the bar's a problem. Being a pub, there isn't a cloakroom - but we did have a Coat Mountain on the floor in the middle of our party so I threw my mine there. Yeah, I know, but what else was I supposed to do with it? It may have been sub-zero outside, but inside the combined body heat of wall-to-wall drinkers was threatening a meltdown. Off it came. As must happen when drink flows, we talked, we danced, we moved around a bit. Some people flaked out early, others arrived late and the group swelled and shrank until at 22:30, some of us formed a raiding party to make for a curry house in Brick Lane. I said my goodbyes, went to the coat mountain... And my coat wasn't there. Imagine my surprise. To say I sobered up pretty quickly would be an understatement worthy of a Tony Blair press conference. I searched high and low, aksed every group of drinkers in the pub and looked outside, but to no avail. It had gone. The others moved off without me and 50 minutes later, I surveyed the devestation that is a City pub after chucking out time. When the lights came up, I noticed that I had two rather gorgeous girls with me and we three were the pub's casualties for that night - me minus my coat, the blonde and the brunette minus a handbag each. It was a rather forlorn (and bloody cold) me that wandered along the lonely late-night streets to Liverpool St. Police Station to report the loss before boarding the last train home. As my keys had been in my coat pocket, I had to wake P up to let me in when I arrived home. Not good. The next morning, the full weight of the loss dawned on me - as well as my keys, I'd left my notebook in the inside pocket of my coat. Now I should explain. Given the myriad and varied assignments that I undertake, I have always kept notes in my little black book which actually stretches to several volumes now. Dates, times, places, contacts. Mobile phone numbers for celebrities, agents, PRs...my whole life on paper. No back up. I'd lost everything. I was heartbroken. As the following week passed, I set about trying to rebuild my life. I never lose things and am quite an orderly person so the loss shook me somewhat. At the time, a freind at a car hire company had loaned me a Ford Galaxy free of charge for a couple of months. The key was on my keyring and they didn't have a duplicate anywhere. I had to get one cut and due to the immobiliser and alarm system, it took time and money - £300 of it! I bought another notebook and set about systematically trying to remember firstly what and who was in the one I'd lost so that I could attempt to begin the arduous task of replacing the numbers and details. It was an impossible task. A week later, I'd given up hope. A monday morning and I was chairing the weekly management meeting when my phone rang... "Hello, you might not remember me but it's Nigel, the pedestrian you knocked over on your motorcycle last year. Have you lost a coat by any chance? I've just had a phone call from a man who says he's got a coat and I think it might be yours - I hope you don't mind but I gave him your number!". Somtimes, 'Thank You' just doesn't cut it - it's not even in the ball park. No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again. "Hello, you don't know me but I think I've got your coat. I'm in the City and going by your phone number I assume you're close by. Give me your address and I'll bring it to you". I did, still not quite believing what was unfolding. It was too much to hope for that the contents of the coat's pockets could still be there. And what if I was the victim of some cruel hoax and the guy had no intention of returning it? I hadn't even thought to ask how the pedestrian I'd run over had got involved! My mind was awhirl when the intercom buzzed and the receptionist told me there was somebody downstairs to see me. Full of trepidation, I took the lift down to be met by a 30-something bloke with a big belly and a ready smile. He was holding my Hugo Boss which he handed to me. And there in the pockets were my notebook, pen and keys. Even the packet of unopened chewie was still there. I was overwhlemed. He explained how he'd come into possession of my coat but refused my offer of wine, scotch, even money by way of thanks. He disappeared with my profuse gratitude but without leaving me an address. I later peiced together the events which had transpired. Somebody in the pub had clearly picked up my coat in error and must have crossed over to McDonalds in Houndsditch before they realised. For whatever reason, rather than return it from whence it came, they dumped it on the nearest car - a Ford Galaxy by some coincidence - and went on their way. 5 minutes later, the car's owner walks out of McDonalds to find a coat on the bonnet of his car. He's in a rush but after a quick look up and down both sides of the street for a prospective owner, he's none the wiser and having found the notebook, puts the coat into the car intending to try and track down it's origins come the weekend. On the Saturday morning, his world fell in - he got a phone call to say his father had had a heart attack and rushed up north to his bedside completley forgetting about the cashemere coat and it's contents which was in the back. Fast forward five days and his dad has thankfully recovered and is out of hospital. Matey drives home again on the Saturday, remembers the coat he's taken on a tour of Britain and resolves to find the owner. He opens the notebook and the first entry he sees is a name, address and phone number. On Monday he rings it. The entry was made six months earlier by me, at a roadside on London Wall. In shaky handwriting, I'd noted down the details of the pedestrian that I'd taken out in a new notebook which had been residing in my jacket pocket alongside its just filled up predecessor. It was this man that my saviour phoned. How the pedestrian made the connection between a phone call from a stranger, a coat and no name remains a mystery, but he did. Thinking back, he remembered me, found my details and gave them to the man. 30 minutes later, coat and grateful owner were reunited. I sent a bottle of Champage by courier that afternoon to the pedestrian I'd mown down six months before. To the man who recovered my life and afterwards, melted back into London anonymity, I gave a silent thank you. And I've marvelled ever since at how a £600 coat and little black book which in the wrong hands could have embarrassed no end of celebs, could go missing in Central London in 2002 and be returned unharmed to its rightful owner. Maybe I was lucky. Yes, our perception of others, our fear of crime is greater than the reality these days but even so, for somebody to go to the trouble of making a number of phone calls to find out my identity rather than just dumping the coat and saving himself the trouble was more than optimistic me had hoped for. That he not only took the trouble, but returned same to me - and sought no personal gain through so doing - restored my confidence in the integrity of strangers which has yet to be shaken. The reality of life in London is somewhat at odds with the reality presented to us on News 24 and through the pages of the tabloids and broadsheets. Whoever my Guardian Angel is, she gets a silent prayer from me most days now. I'm a wiser and more careful fellow because of her. And my notebook stays home when I go out on the lash these days. |
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5.1.04 15:27 |
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LIFE's a BEACH AND THEN YOU DIE
I had to pop out to Tesco at lunchtime and I suppose that brought home to me how frustrated I feel living here. Sure, working from home has its perks, but it sucks during working hours being the only male under 40 in a town with a population of 20,000 when everyone else has white hair or a pram. At least when I worked in London I was surrounded by gorgeous women and blokes of my own age when I had to pop out at lunchtime. Lascivious thoughts used to push aside everything in my mind when the girl in front of me at Pret a Manger was dark haired, under 30 and wore a diaphanous blouse and short skirt with black nylon stockings and heels. Nowadays, the woman in front is likely to be white haired, 70 and looking through her purse for change to pay for her tin of dog food. That's fine, and I'll happily engage her in conversation. But it doesn't do much for my sense of adventure. Or my libido come to think of it. I can't complain really - my work frequently takes me overseas and I'm fortunate that all I need to do my job is myself, a camera and a laptop computer with access to the Net. I could do what I do from anywhere in the world. Which kinda makes me question what we are doing living in a suburban town north of the Capital when we could be sitting on a beach in India or I could be filing my copy from a laptop in the middle of the Masai Mara. It's always at this time of year that my wanderlust seems to prick at my subconcious, like an undertone to my whole existence. Between October and April each year, Ennui and I are on intimate terms and sunnier climes always tug at my emotions. It's a constant, I guess, but with the life choices we've made it's an itch we can't scratch for the moment - work, family and financial commitments mean we're going to be here for a while yet. Thoughts all have a catalyst somewhere, an incident which inspires or nudges a feeling and a number of things have made us rethink. Both P and I have been following the Channel 4 series 'A New Life Down Under' in which UK families relocate to Aus. The cost of living and lifestyle are the obvious attractions and both of us score highly points-wise with a view to immigration which makes the idea of perhaps heading out there more real - but not yet. A is settled at school and in life and we have no intention of moving her away at such a crucial time. However, in another four years or so, she'll be off to Uni. Then the gloves come of - maybe we could look to move out there then. At the very least, we're going to go East - India beckons. Then Africa. I took the above picture back in 1988 - I was single then and the travel bug had taken me to the Maldives - the island of Bandos to be exact, which at the time was as basic as it got. I spent three weeks there - I'd travelled alone - but made some great friends and had the time of my life. No phones, no aircon, no TV or radio, no hot water. Just me, a suitcase of paperpacks and music and a walkman. I wore swimming shorts and went bearfoot from sunrise to sunset and completely dropped out of routine. I loved it. I guess that and all the travel I'd done before - to South America, the US, Canada. All of Europe, the Middle East, China and Hong Kong- set the scene and has dicated my life ever since. We're both still relatively young considering - when A's 18, I'll only just have passed my 40th birthday - and I'm lucky that P shares the same dreams. She's well traveled too but we both have the same gaps in our passports - India and Africa. There's a world out there still to explore and I don't plan on sitting at home and doing it through 'Wish You Were Here', even if Ruth England presents it naked. Well, maybe not, but that's hardly likely now, is it? |
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7.1.04 14:34 |
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SARTORIAL INELEGANCE
It's not often that I'm inpsired (a bit worrying for someone who's living depends on it, it hs to be said) but I thought this idea of mine deserved its own space. Regular readers of my blog will know of my repeated whining at some of the more frustrating aspects of working from home. Namely the lack of social contact that those of us away from the centre of the Capital have to endure on a daily basis as well as some of the more idiosynchratic elements of office life that we have to live without - such as the Christmas parties, health and safety policy and the like. Just look at what we're missing out on. As home workers, we're immunized from the greatest threat to man since a certain German Chancellor decided that his his future lay outside of the Reichstag and extended across Western Europe - office politics. No, let me expand on that: specifically, women. I can only speak for the men amongst us, but I used to find concentrating on work a real struggle whilst my female colleagues were dressed to impress. It's all well and good, but how are you supposed to act, how are you supposed to work when 50% of your office colleagues look as though they're modelling for a lingerie catalogue? When for 12 to 14 hours of everyday, your sex-drive is off the scale, a side-effect of the testosterone and adrenaline-fuelled world that is office life and you can't work out of the girl you sit next to has dressed to go clubbing immediately after work or has come to her desk straight from 'Freedom' at Bagley's? Whatever happened to sartorial elegance? Okay, perhaps elegance is the wrong word - maybe 'subtlety' would be more apposite. Summer arrives and with it comes flesh, cleavage and a flash of thigh. A long time ago, suggestion seemed to be the defining characteristic of dress. The lexicon for women of the internet generation now seems to be not 'What am I going to wear to work today' but rather 'How sexy is acceptable - what can I get away with'. It's no wonder that productivity for men working in offices is so low compared to those of us working from home. When your only option is to spend half the day staring at the ceiling tiles and you're having a few seconds of every minute stolen by a subconcious glance at an exposed back or flash of thigh it's hardly surprising, is it? In effect, women are wearing what they want to wear and are taking the 'day-into-night' fashion mantra to its logical conclusion, looking drop-dead sexy in the workplace. Office wear per se has vanished and the 'home' wardrobe is simply one of the outfits that she used to wear to the club of that name in Leicester Square. Sexy dressing has radically altered women's perception of what is acceptable in the workplace - ever more adventurous weekend wear has, through constant exposure, devalued the currency. It's one thing being able to see through to a woman's underwear in a nightclub or restaurant, or even on a train at the weekend, but in the workplace, during the week? Great in theory, but you try being a fella with a deadline and an excel spreadsheet to wrestle with.
ABOVE: The latest in summer work-wear for the fashion-conscious girl in accounts Whilst we swelter in our year-round uniforms of dark suit, shirt and silk tie, the only concession that etiquette allows us is the occasional removal of a jacket, or latterly, going minus a tie. We seem to be far more self-aware of the impact upon women of our dress than do girls upon us. Those yards of legs and baby-sized T-shirts worn by sexy twenty-something girls is bound to have an effect. Quite frankly, those of us at the spearhead of home-working, blazing a trail for the rest of society to follow are missing out and it's not fair. Something needs to be done to redress the balance and I think I have the solution. Back when I worked in the City, we used to have shoe-shine girls and suit makers come to visit us at our desks. Then it grew to encompass all sorts of services - sandwiches, laundry - absolutley anything and everything for the under-pressure cash rich/time poor broker in his office . So why not build on that intiative and form a support group for the eye-candy deprived home-workers who are far too productive for their own good? A group which given the relentless march of technology can only grow in number with each passing month. What we need is a pool of male and female models in sexy clothes to descend upon our home offices. Miss flirting at the photcopier with the new girl in operations? No problem, here's a drop dead gorgeous twenty-something dressed appropriate for the season (see-through top, skirt and sandals in summer, Fuck-Me boots with a skirt October-April) to stand around while you're working. Girls, want a bloke to bat your eyelashes at over the watercooler in a 'just-harmless-fun-don't really-mean-it' kinda fashion? Here's a thirty-something male model with a chiselled jaw and two-day stubble (sorry, our quest for sartorial accuracy means he'll be dressed in a suit year-round, regardless of the climate). Come high summer and they could descend in groups to unpack lunch in your garden and soak up the sun's rays whilst dressed in workwear a la any park/green space in the City or West End. Eat your BLT amongst sober-suited fellas and overheating girls lounging on your lawn, trying hopelessly to catch a tan in the 40 minutes left of their 'lunch-hour' - from the comfort of your own patio which also commands a superb view. Homeworkers could pay a monthly premium for the service which they might even be able to claim as an allowable business expense. And come Christmas, additional freelance models could come to your abode and dance in your lounge whilst drinking cheap beer and wine - although vomiting in your airing cupboard and shagging in your downstairs toilet would be cost options if you wanted to accurately recreate that 'works christmas party' atmosphere. Specially qualified men and women could also sit on your photocopier and run off two reams of images of their bare bottoms for a small fee. What do you think? Has it got...er...legs? It's time to redress the balance. Your ideas please.
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8.1.04 14:45 |
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CAT FIGHT
Anybody else been watching Big Cat Week on the BBC? It's absolutely compelling viewing, with three separate crews on the Masai Mara shadowing three families of Big Cats throughout this week - Bella, a Leopard and her cubs; Bibi , a lioness and her cubs and Kike, a Cheetah and her cubs. I've always been fascinated by the grace and poise of the big cats and whilst each has its own idiosyncrasies, the Leopard is for me one of the most beautiful animals on the planet - so lean, so focused, so damn efficient in every respect. Every fibre of its being works to one common objective - to be a ruthlessly effecient hunting machine, despatching its prey quickly and cleanly with nothing wasted. There's something beautiful about the tragedy of the hunt, seeing any of these creatures stalking its prey and moving in for the kill. Sad though it is to see, there's an inevitability about it, each animal playing its part in the circle of life. Watching the respective cubs struggle for survival against the odds, mum fighting conflicting urges to abandon them and hunt for their next meal or staying to protect them and so stare starvation in the face. Full marks to the BBC for yet another top nature program - informative, fascinating and beautifully shot. It's on tonight and tomorrow at 19:00 on BBC1 - watch it and contrast the inate beauty and purity of the idea compared to the crass, car crash TV that is Channel Four's 'Shattered' - another program which is being broadcast every night this week. |
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8.1.04 19:27 |
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CHANGING ROOMS
Well, it's been six months or so and I thought it was time for some spring cleaning in my blog. So I've moved my feature on when the RAF let me loose in one of their £30m front-line fighter jets over the Scottish countryside (the fools!) to a new section called, strangely enough, Someone Else's Life. It's in there keeping my story on the Special Escort Group - those guys who escort the Royal Family, government ministers and VIPs - company and will be joined over the next couple of weeks by some of the other gigs I've been fortunate enough to experience and then write about. Was a rather busy weeked - well, of sorts. I was due to meet Alan the PR for lunch at Quo Vadis on Friday but he cancelled at the last minute as he's inclined to do (rescheduled for today and I've just returned) so I had the afternoon free. A was at a friend's getting ready for the monthly under-17's Nightclub and P was late home from work so I curled up on the sofa to watch the DVD of LOTR II. Awesome. What more can I say? Saturday saw Nick and Eva, Steve, Elaine and Wendy at ours for dinner so most of Saturday was spent with me in the kitchen, P at Tesco and finally, both of us prepping the dining room. Minor calamity just before everyone arrived when I smelt a horrible, acrid smell and saw thick smoke billowing from inside my office! Turns out the PSU in my server had decided to die, not 18 months after being installed. It's still under warranty but I don't hold out much hope in the manufacturer honouring it - another two-bit Taiwanese manufacturer who no doubt 'no longer makes that model' or is now trading under a different name. Opened the windows to clear the smoke and shortly thereafter, everyone arrived. Fantastic time had by all, complete blow out with far too much of everything - especially alcohol. A was on a sleepover, everyone had babysitters and bed time came, predictably, at Stupid O'Clock - 05:30 for me to be exact as I fell asleep on the sofa, having 'just sat down for 5 minutes' after the last guest left. Yeah, right. A was back early on Sunday so after having done her homework, we went off for a father-daughter bonding session to the local multiplex to see LOTR III. See my comments for II - what can I add that hasn't been said? It was fantastic. A quiet week ahead for me - it's that time of the month again when I'm chained to the PC with the sword of Damocles hanging o'er me and a host of features to write for a weekend deadline. No worries, I can handle it - and I won't even need Rose or Alix to hold me at gun point to do so Fortunately I have some adrenaline-inducing features lined up for the next few weeks so I can get out and enjoy life before summer arrives - too much home-working makes this hack a dull boy indeed. |
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12.1.04 18:39 |
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LHR to JFK IN AN HOUR: FLYING THE 747-400
Last month I was invited by British Airways to spend a day at the company's pilot training facility at London's Heathrow Airport with a view to writing a feature about the company's approach to a fascinating science called Cockpit Resource Management.
This is a comparitively recent phenomenon in real terms, although it's been around for more than a few years. Over the past decade there has been significant evidence which suggests some 70% of air carrier incidents and accidents have been caused by a failure of the flight crew to make use of readily available resources. Further research uncovered many common characteristics in the probelms encountered by flight crews, including poor group decision making, ineffective communication, inadequate leadership and poor management. Historically, many traditional pilot training programs emphasised the technical aspects of flying almost exclusively and did not deal effectively with the human factors - in essence, the fallibility of the weakest link in the chain.
Briefly defined, CRM, or Cockpit Resource Management is defined as the effective use of all available resources - for example, equipment, procedures and people - to achieve safe, efficient flight operations. Training focuses on a number of elements but it is designed to recognise the functioning of the flight crew - that is, Captain and Co-Pilot plus engineer if necessary - as an 'intact team', not simply as a collection of technically competent individuals. Training and assessment is ongoing for all airline pilots - they must for example, successfully complete two Simulator Assessment flights every six months where an instructor will throw all sorts of scenarios at them and they will be expected to work as a seamless, effecient team to successly resolve the problems and land safely. CRM training should provide opportunities for crew members to practise their skills together in the roles that they normally perform in flight, with pilots developing their personal and leadership styles to foster greater crew effectiveness.
One element of this focuses on the inpact which the behaviour of the pilots during normal, routine flight can have on how effectively the crew functions during high-workload, stressful situations. During critical emergency scenarios, basic skills and knowledge are brought into play and time is of the essence - no crew member is going to have the luxury of reflecting on his or her CRM training to determin the appropriate course of action. Hence CRM needs to be taught as a base skill so that when a situation demands it, any two pilots who form the basic crew on any given flight and in all likelihod will never have met before, will be able to work seamlessly and effeciently as a team.
After a morning in the classroom, where I was briefed by a team of some of BA's most senior pilots, it was thought that the best demonstration of CRM in action would be for me to spend some time in one of the company's state of the art simulators, to see for myself just how emergencies are handled.
I got a graphic representation of just how quickly everything could fall apart on one flight where a number of scenarios were introduced to myself, as the flying pilot, and my co-pilot, a captain of significant experience. Basic flying skills and technical competence represent but a tiny proportion of a pilot's workload on a a modern day airliner and this is one of the underlying factors for roles to be clearly defined. On any given leg of a flight, one pilot will be designated the handling pilot and it wil be his role to fly the aircraft. The other pilot will take care of all systems, inputs, radio traffic and provide confirmation and back up to the other. This allows the handling pilot to devote 100% of his concentration to the job at hand.
I saw this for myself when, as the handling pilot on one 'flight', I became distracted by a problem in extinguishing an engine fire and by not concentrating on the flying, I lost over 5,000ft of altitude. Had we been flying at 4,000ft at the time of the fire and not 36,000ft, the results could have been catastrophic. What follows below is my account of a successful flight, from take off to landing. I'm not a qualified pilot - I don't even hold a Private Pilot's Licence, although as someone with an avid interest in flying, I can and have piloted aircraft before. I had never previously found myself at the controls of anything so big and heavy as a 747-400, the world's largest commercial airliner before though and wondered, if the need arose, would I be able to get myself on to the ground in one peice. If you've ever wondered the same, there are a number of comapnies which will allow you to find out, renting out full-motion simulators with a qualified pilot by the hour. I thoroughly recommend it.
ffice Above: Me (left) lining the 747-400 sim up for a landing on Heathrow's Runway 27L, the ground lights clearly visible through the screen. The controls are surprisingly light in my hands given that they place in me in control of over £10m worth of jet airliner. Just 30 minutes earlier, Id been sat 75ft above the tarmac on Heathrow Airport's runway 28R, my left hand on the yoke, my right on the throttle levers to control the power to the four massive Pratt and Whitney jet engines. Releasing the brakes, I'd heard the rise in pitch and felt the vibration as I'd cycled the power up to 90%, fully 62,000lbs of thrust shaking the fuselage and propelling us forward as we hurtled down the runway. A few minor adjustments with the rudder pedals to keep us straight along the centreline and a few seconds after brakes off I heard John, my co-pilot call out first 'V1' and then, 'Rotate!' signifying that we had reached take-off speed. I eased back on the yoke to bring the nose up and was rewarded by seeing the ground fall away beneath us as we climbed into the starry night sky. "Positive rate of climb" called John, reaching forward to lift the lever controlling the undercarriage and then, "Gear Up".
I shifted the controls left and adjusted the rudder, keeping an eye on the power and following the flight director on the EFIS screen in front of me to take us on a course over the Bristol Channel, the Irish Sea and thence a northerly course over the Atlantic toward ffice:smarttags" /> As I engaged the auto pilot, which took over the control of the aircraft, computers making the minute adjustments necessary to keep us on our planned route and in steady flight, I turned to John... "So, how many hours have you got logged on these, then?" "About 11,000 hours" came his modest reply. There I was in the left hand seat, with zero hours on type, occupying the traditional home of the aircraft's captain and the man next to me is one of British Airways' most experienced Captains - just the man I needed at my side. Just then a warning signal sounded. Looking to the overhead panel, I noticed that our Number Four Engine appeared to be on fire just as the EFIS screen in the centre of the console appeared to confirm the same. "I have control!" I said to John, disengaging the autopilot. "What have we got?" "Fire, Number Four Engine" he said, and glancing at the overhead panel again to clarify I said "Number Four, confirmed". I pulled the throttle for that engine fully back to its detent position, shutting off its fuel to starve the fire, the action confirmed by a reducing figure for the respective fuel flow to that engine on the screen in front of me. As I did so, John reached above and pulled a switch next to the light for the Number Four engine, which set in motion a chain reaction for the automated systems to extinguish the fire. The light in the overhead panel went out confirming that the Number Four engine was no longer in danger. "Good' said John, "Well done. Fancy a landing now?"
I laughed - I could get used to travelling like this. Because despite the realism of my environment, I was in a world as illusory as anything weaved by This wasn't Microsoft's Flight Sim 2003 but one of the full-motion £10m simulators that BA rents out when its not training its own pilots. To put the realism that these things present into perspective, a zero hour pilot with no flying experience could gain sufficient hours on one and be granted a licence by the CAA - UK aviation's governing body - to fly the real thing without ever actually been near the genuine aircraft before. That made me feel a little better about the perspiration trickling down my forehead and explained the clammy palms which slipped on the yoke! I eased the throttle lever for the Number Four engine back to its cruise position and looked to John. "Reignite Number Four, please", I commanded and he raised his arm to engage the switch that would do this. I noticed the power increasing positively on the display and banked the aircraft left, watching the compass heading until I had us on course for a return back to Heathrow. We eased the yokes forward and retarded the throttles (descending automatically increases your airspeed) to take us down to 20,000ft, cruising at a speed just shy of 300knots. and east of Ten miles and 7,000 ft out, I selected 5 degrees of flaps and eased the throttles back to keep us under 250knots. the runway lights were visible in the distance as I set the Autobrakes to engage on touchdown and set the Jeppeson map on a 100mile scale using the EFIS control on the front panel. I called 'Gear Down' and John moved the handle. I felt the aircraft shake as the huge wheels lowered into the slipstream at over 180 knots and heard "Lights green" from John, referring to the lights on the panel which confirmed the gear was in the down position. I moved the flap lever to select 10 degrees and adjusted the throttles back to keep our speed at 180 knots - the flaps are needed to keep the aircraft aloft at low speeds. As we descended through 4,000ft, I selected 15 degrees, then 20 and finally 25 for landing.
"Speedbrake armed, hydraulics checked" called John as we flew over the M4 at 1,000 feet, cars clearly visible beneath us. Runway 27L was there ahead, lit up like a Christmas tree and the ILS showed our approach to be good and true. Over the airport perimeter now and as we reached 50 feet, the radar altimeter started talking, counting off the height in 10 ft increments. As I heard "30", I brought all four throttles to idle and as I heard "10", raised the nose to slow us as we sank onto the runway beneath us, the gear touching down with a thud followed by the nosewheel. The cockpit shook as I raised the reverse thrust levers and stood on the brakes to scrub off some of the 150 knots of speed we were still carrying and about two thirds along the 10,000ft runway, we rolled to a comfortable stop. I had made it - onto the runway. In one piece. Seated there in the captain's chair, I was stunned at the realism the sim presented me with. I've flown thousands of miles at the front of real 747s and despite reminding myself that what I was seeing was a hi-end graphics projection onto the cockpit screen not one part of me was willing to concede that what I saw before me was anything other than the threshold to Heathrow's Runway 27L with the starry night sky above. I had a further 90 minutes in the sim - time worth over £2,000 in total - and carried out a number of take offs and landings in differing scenarios, including one 'Go Around' - an aborted landing necessitating full power to climb out just 20 feet from touchdown. Sweating, adrenaline coursing through me, I sat there with a wide grin on my face. As experiences go, this one was up there with the best of them. Maybe it wasn't as slick a landing as 3 years training, 2,000 hours and £60,000 would achieve but the end result is what mattered. In the unlikely event that I ever need to, I know now that I could do it for real. |
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