INTO THE ABYSS: THE IRAQI DREAM TURNS TO DUST

I've just finished reading Colonel Tim Collins' book about his time in Iraq, Rules of Engagement: A Life in Conflict and his account has done nothing to change my view that we were we were wrong to go in. By the end of the book, his frustration at the mess we have created there is evident. The Iraqis have turned from welcoming us as liberators, to regarding us as an occupying force, depriving them of many of the things they took for granted under Saddam; things like water, food, petrol and the autonomy to get on with their lives. And much of what he writes accords with my own experiences whilst I was there last year. 


When my news agency posted me to Baghdad in March 2004, I was given a brief; "Look for the good news", I was told by my news editor. "The newswires are full of the negative stuff, the in-your-face images from suicide bombings and rocket attacks. There are acres of newsprint about the shortages - the lack of electricity and water, the queues for fuel. Go find some good news." And with that exhortation ringing in my ears, I set up an office in the city as the agency's grandly titled Baghdad Bureau Chief (I was its sole member of staff!) and set about looking for the good news. I didn't find any then. And if I'm honest, I can't see any now.  


I was in favour of the war before I went out there, but I came back with a changed view and nothing I've seen or heard since has convinced me otherwise. Sure, Saddam Hussein was a problem for segments of his own population. But for the majority of Iraqis, life was ok. Women held roles in government and buisness, and people went about their lives worshipping their own God - Saddam's Iraq was a secular country where religion and state were seperate from one another. No, life wasn't perfect and Saddam was a tyrant. But in the Dictators' First XI, the deposed Iraqi leader doesn't even make it onto the subs' bench. There are countless corrupt and evil governments globally, all of which are ruled by madmen and despots. Take your pick; how about Uzbekistan? Or you could have North Korea or Burma or Zimbabwe. Then there's Sudan, but come to think of it, you may as well include the majority of countries in sub-Saharan Africa. 


However, three western leaders decided that Saddam was one situation they simply had to do something about, so Messrs Bush, Blair and Berlusconi set to work. It wasn't that they had a problem with dictatorships per se; they just took issue with dictators who didn't like them (and coincidentally were sitting on top of oil). However, they needed a reason. So they came up with the Lie of the Century. As Dr Goebbels may have said, "If you're going to tell a lie, tell a whopper, and better still, one that can't be found out until too late". So Colin Powell went to the UN and told the assembled security council all about those Weapons of Mass Destruction.  And he did it with a straight face.


 



Magnanimous in Victory: Colonel Tim Collins addresses his regiment with an off-the-cuff pep talk on the eve of the war in Iraq, March 2003. His speech has become one of the most famous of recent times and it's been said that George W. Bush has a copy on the wall of the Oval Office in the White House  


So in they went. And weren't we all surprised when they found no WMD? Still, the mission was a success after all because it effected 'regime change' - we removed one psychotic dictator and replaced him with tens of thousands of psychotic Shias and Sunnis wiping each other out, taking hostages and cutting their heads off, kidnapping doctors and professionals for money. Soldiers, security forces, the civilian population...they're not fussy, they all add to the bodycount for the countless suicide bombers flocking across the borders. America did what it does best, and created one great big theme park called 'Jihad World' and it's massively popular with all those stupid indoctrinated Saudi kids. And the ones from Syria, Jordan, Turkey and Iran. Of course, the Iraqi insurgents are more than happy to stand aside and let the visitors blow themselves up on their behalf; they're far too smart to do that and beside, who's going to reap the spoils and fill all the top jobs; you can't do that when you're dead, now, can you?


But no matter. There will be good news when there are elections - no, wait, when there's a parliament - no wait, when there's a constitution. Did the self-styled 'Coalition-of the willing' (led by Bush, Blair and Berlusconi) really imagine that this collection of self-seeking and opportunist individuals would come up with a constitution such as exists in the U.S. or here in England? With Civil Rights, Women's Rights, Freedom of Expression and Freedom of Worship enshrined from the beginning. I mean, let's face it; the antecedents aren't all that promising in a region where the only true democracy is Israel -the one they all love to hate, are they?


Inevitably, when Bush finally realised his dream of an American-style system of democracy in Iraq was dead in the water, he did the only thing he could do; as the deadlines for the new constitution were extended once, twice, three times with no agreement in sight, he finally backed demands for the new constitution to enshrine Islamic religious law and abandoned the fading dream of turning Iraq into a beacon of secular democracy in the Middle East. Society under Saddam may not have been democratic, but it was secular and women were at least free to wear what they wanted. What the new Iraqi constitution offers is the prospect of new laws being assessed against verses from the Qur'an, and risks alienating not just the country's non-Muslim minorities, but more secular Muslim groups, such as the Kurds, too.


If you want to draw a comparison, the Taliban in Afghanistan pre-2001 should tell you all you need to know; it's beards for men and full Chador or burqa for women. And just look at this fabulous range of swimsuits that the girls will be able to choose from! If you want a more graphic example, you only need look at Saudi Arabia, a country where homosexuals are beheaded, there is zero tolerance for religions other than Islam and 'loose' or adulterous women are stoned to death (unless one of them happens to be a princess who has a lover - then she gets to have her head removed with a sword). See, that's what happens in a country ruled by Imams and Religious Policemen (Saudi's high-profile King with his massively-extended royal family has just a nominal role). Look further south and you arrive at Yemen, where the standard fashion accessory is the AK47, and it makes the Wild West look like the Regency Tea Rooms in Bath. To the east is a collection of minor Sheikdoms that are relatively liberal, but too small to have any influence. Further east there's Pakistan, which is only prevented from becoming an Islamic Republic by the will-power of its lonely President, and as for Afghanistan...To the north-east sits Iran, with a new super-conservative-Muslim President who's going to make his own nuclear weapon. Nice.


So, what has the Coalition achieved in Iraq? Aside from turning the previously-secular Iraq into yet another Islamic Republic paradise with the potential to be the nastiest, most repressive, most intolerant, and most stupid theocracy in the entire world. That's assuming of course that the now-marginalised Sunni population, which previously formed the majority of Saddam's Ba'athist government, and stands to lose most under the new constitution, doesn't plunge the country into civil war. And with the oil fields concentrated in the Shi'a south and Kurdish north, there's a greater than evens chance of that happening if, as expected, a Federal Iraq arises with the oil revenues flowing to the north and south.


Still, we removed Saddam. So, er...that's alright then. What do you think? 
1.9.05 12:38


WINDING DOWN SUMMER

I've just got back from an interesting meeting with British Airways at the airline's Heathrow headquarters, Waterside. I was there to discuss arrangements for an upcoming assignment that they are co-ordinating, which falls within the next couple of weeks and given the destination - and what I learned on Friday, I'm really looking forward to it. We discussed the iteinery, which all looks perfect - there are some great people in the party, an incredible hotel at the other end, and we're destined for a continent that I've never visited before. Could be one of the year's highlights for me. I chose to go over on the bike, and the minute I hit the M25, I realised I'd made the right decision; London's biggest car park was a solid line of cars for about 8 miles in each direction, but the BMW made light work of that as I carved out my own lane in between those in the middle and outside.  One benefit of a bike like this is that you can ride to meetings and still look presentable; the capacious panniers easily swallowed my smart jacket and briefcase, and I rode over in a polo shirt and smart jeans. When I arrived, helmet into the panniers, jacket on and I looked half-way smart - result! 


Summer may be packing its things away and living out of boxes, but it ain't prepared to vacate the premises just yet, despite the impending return next Monday of 'normal' life. Not the life that those of us in London have enjoyed since mid-July, when almost 20% of London’s 12 million daytime inhabitants seem to vanish from the face of the earth, leaving those of us left behind with a seductive glimpse at the utopic ideal of the life we'd like but can never have. No, the life we'll have come Monday will be brought to us by the stress-inducing return of children to school and the attendent rise in traffic, the nights drawing in, Autumn schedules on TV and the long, interminable wait until the next holiday; Christmas. Strangely, despite the temperature outside being a rather balmy and pleasant 80 degrees with lots of sunshine, and more forecast for the weekend, I've suddenly sensed a deep well of ennui ready to consume me!  



Not its Natural Habitat: A BMW X5. Must be a School-Run Mum's, just look at how clean it is. Maybe she's lost?


And so, as the kids return to school, offices return to normality, and workers return to their desks with the post-holiday blues, they're joined by one of the greatest meances to occupy space on our roads; the School-Run Mum in her 4x4 (or SUV for my American readers). One of the tenets of Sun Tzu's Art of War is to know your enemy, so to that end, may I point out some distinguishing features to assist you in spotting her? 


Age-wise, she'll be somewhere in her thirties and her weapon of choice - well, it simply must be a BMW X5 or Range Rover, although those living in the less desirable postcodes of London, might drive a Chrysler Jeep (very rarely, desperate housewives from the poor side of town can be seen in a LandRover Freelander). In essence, though any ‘nippy little runaround’ will do, so long as it has wheels the size of the London Eye, a commanding driving position and the manoeuvrability of a 38-tonne truck. After all, what could be more suitable for little Rupert, Hermione and Genevieve's drive to school than something as warm, as safe, and the same size as their house?


You can tell School-Run Mum's 4x4 - it's usually spotlessly clean, and it's not unknown for her to drive around puddles (or mount the curb) to avoid getting it dirty. Although her car is built for the country, the closest she's been to utilising the benefit of its four wheel drive was a picnic in Richmond Park during the summer. Oh, and there' was the occasional weekend at Giles' cottage in Dorset. Off-Roading? That’ll be parking it on the drive, then.



Mirror, Signal, Apply Make-Up: Whilst Rupert catches up on his homework, mummy shows just how dexterous she really is; chatting to her best friend on the mobile, applying lippy and driving! 


You don't need to travel far to find her; generally, she'll be on a road near you, even in the suburbs, so long as you have a London postcode. Her behaviour marks her out, too - she's a woman with a mission and like the T1000 cyborg in Terminator 2, she’s relentless; she will get the kids to school on time and nothing and no one will stand in her way. She'll make excellent use of the car's mirrors, though only for touching-up the blusher after her mobile phone has smudged it. She's likely to be self obsessed and vain to the point of infatuation, so don't expect her to notice you - best give her a wide berth. Always flustered & in a hurry, she’ll have a million things on her mind (which ready meal to get from Waitrose, her coffee morning with her friends – in fact, anything other than driving). In fact, she really must make sure the next nanny has a driving licence. 


You can find similar guides to other road menaces within the comments section on this entry; there are lots of them out there, and to be honest, everybody has their 'favourite' that they love to hate - you could fill a book with hazardous road users, and the ways in which to identify their specific traits. Still, oone at a time; I've started with School Run Mum and in the comments section you'll find additional illustrated guides on The Boy Racer, The Trophy Wife, London Taxi Driver, Long Distance Truck Driver, Classic Car Driver, The Pensioner and The Sexy Girl (aka the 'Sidewalk Diversion')!  


Whatever you're doing before life changes up a gear on Monday, enjoy your weekends - it's a long time until the next break and sadly, the weather's only likely to deteriorate between now and then. Arse! Anyway, who do you think the biggest enemy is on the road? What's yours?
2.9.05 17:44


A MOUNTAIN TO CLIMB

I feel like I've got a mountain to climb ahead of me work-wise and the contrast with my enforced lack of industriousness these past few weeks couldn't be greater. The savage pain from the sudden onset of sciatica, which so debilitated me throughout August and seemingly wiped out the best of summer for me left me with an unforseen legacy too last week when the side-effects of the medication that I'd been prescribed hit me like an inter-city express train. Tramadol might be an effective and potent analgesic, but one of the side-effects that derives from the manner in which it blocks the brain's pain receptors is that it acts as an SSRI. As I gradually regained my flexibility - and then become relatively pain-free, I simply stopped taking the Tramadol as I would any other analgesic. However, simply stopping taking Aspirin, Ibuprofen or Paracetomol doesn't produce any noticeable difference in one's state of well being; the Tramadol though, was different. Hence my starting the week feeling nasueous, fatigued, and uncharacteristically low of mood; worryingly so. Wherever I was on Monday, it's not a place I'm familiar with and nor is it one I ever wish to visit again.


That said, I did manage to plow through nine short features for a new news agency contract, the result of a speculative phone call and its resultant lunch with the editor in May. Thursday was just idyllic, the perfect day. I spent the morning and time immediately after lunch watching England's cricket heroes peform in the gorgeous September sunshine, but was dragged away at around 14:00 as I had to ride into London on the BMW for a brief meeting with another editor. Fabulous weather and a temperature of almost 90 degrees meant just half leathers and boots, worn with a short-sleeved T-shirt for the ride into the capital and boy, did I have fun with that! How I've missed the gap-chasing, the camaraderie between other bikers, the snatched conversations at traffic lights. The twenty five minute journey into SE1 passed far too quickly and I was so in the groove that after the meeting, I gunned the bike into life, fired up its on-board CD with some bustin' choons and made for the Oval just to soak up some of the atmosphere. It was bliss. Arrived home to discover an email which rather changes the hue of the end of this month, anyway. More on that as it unfolds.


Another meeting in London yesterday, back at The Cumberland Hotel of all places (blogged here) with another editor, a delightful young woman who represents a new venture and a possible new contract. Had a pleasant couple of hours chatting over coffee in the hotel's bar before I headed off for a browse along Oxford Street. Which brings me nicely to next week, the start of a month or so of several assignments that will take me on two trips abroad and then all over the U.K. Whatever, they all take me away from home and the things and people I most love. There's a sense of apprehension hanging over me though, given the nature of Monday's gig, more of a jolly than an assignment, as I've not been commissioned to write about it (yet!) It's the result of an offer from 'Flyco' on the bridge aboard HMS Illustrious, which he made when I joined the ship on assignment in June. I have been invited (the fools!) to take the controls and fly a Harrier, without doubt one of the most unique and incredible aircraft ever to grace the skies.



Good to Go: A Sea Harrier of the Royal Navy's Fleet Air Arm explodes forward from the deck of HMS Illustrious as a member of the ground crew shileds his body from the jet's exhaust. 


My office is its typical pre-departure mess at the moment, a mass of cases, cables, chargers, cameras and various journalistic ephemera (not to mention a few clothes and personal effects) all ready for my departure tomorrow (Sunday, for God's sake) and a long drive down to the UK's south-west. Monday will bring with it a few butterflies at the prospect of the forthcoming sortie, a raft of tests, fitting of kit and finally, the inevitable walk out to the pan where I'll be strapped in to a two-seat version of the above fighter/bomber ready for take off. I'm travelling with my good mate and sometime snapper Nick, a photographer who I met when I was just starting out in journalism and with whom I forged a strong bond, both personal and professional. We've worked together on a number of gigs, but not for a couple of years, so this one should be something special.   


I'll have no time to catch my breath though; back on the ground on Monday afternoon, I'll have to make myself presentable pretty quickly (and going by past experience of flying fast jets, that'll be no mean feat!) ready to interview a female military officer for another assignment which has been on-going for a while now. That said, with her interviewed and photographed, it'll be a long way down the road to completion, so I'll have the end in sight for one feature, at least. We'll have a manic drive back to mine through the night on Monday ready for a few hours sleep before both Nick and I go our separate ways again on differing assignments; him to catch a flight to Scotland, and me to Heathrow for the evening where I've a bed waiting for me in the Club World cabin of a British Airways 747.



Kick her Out of Bed: Well, she's sitting in my seat, and at the touch of a button on the remote control, it becomes a 6ft long fully-flat bed and I'll be wanting to catch at least some sleep on the 11 flight which lies ahead! 


I love BA's Club World product, which is pitched at just the right level of service and luxury (and it's all the better when you're travelling on someone else's dollar!) The beds are comfortable, the service is top-notch and the food, degree of privacy, in-flight entertainment etc, are all just right. We're a large party, although a BBC film crew and myself will be the only journalists covering this story, which lies in a township outside of Johannesburg, South Africa. Another first for me; it's a continent I've never previously visited, the story looks fascinating, the party I'm travelling and working with contains some great characters. Oh, and the hotel at the other end looks fabulous, situated as it is within the confines of one of Jo-burg's more exclusive gated communities. There's no jet lag given that we're flying due south, so the short duration of the trip (we fly back on Friday night, arriving into London on Saturday morning) should present no problems and we'll hit the ground running on arrival in SA with a packed program ahead of us. 


I'm really looking forward to that one (the Harrier less so, if I'm being honest but then given my previous experiences of flying fast jets like the Tornado and the Hawk, I've good reason to feel a little nervous) but there'll be a full write up and pictures for both trips upon my return (a few days to get myself together and then I'm off again the following week). That said, there is wi-fi access at the hotel so depending on how stretched I am time-wise, I'll see if I can't post anything from South Africa. I'll be glad when tthis raft of assignments is complete and have my sights firmly set on Saturday, October 2nd, the day I finally return home with no more trips for at least a month. I'll need the break - by then, I'll have several deadlines hanging and a number of features to write and deliver. Only then might I be able to relax a bit and get on with the business of having a life! 


You may have noticed that I've made a few minor alterations to the masthead at the top of the page (well, it's been over two years and I'm growing bored with it). This one is just a temporary measure, something that I knocked out whilst playing with ideas so don't expect it to stay; I've got the motivation to give this place a make over just as soon as I get the opportunity. Have a great weekend and I'll catch up with you all upon my return (or briefly before I fly out on Tuesday evening). 
10.9.05 14:45


EXORCISING MY DEMONS: FLYING THE HARRIER

I know that time is a relative concept but the past week seems to have distorted it beyond all recognition. In fact, going by what I've done and where I've been since my last entry, it's difficult to believe it all took place in just seven days. This time last week, I was driving down to HMS Heron (also known as RNAS Yeovilton) in Somerset with a Nick, a mate and a damn good photographer with whom I've worked many times. Arriving at 18:30, we were booked into cabins in the newly-built Wardroom (the Navy's term for an officers' mess), ready for an early start the following day, which saw me undertaking a Class 1 medical for a fast jet flight. Just after lunch, I took off on a flying sortie strapped into a Harrier T8; back that afternoon, I just had time to interview a delightful female engineering officer based there before the marathon drive home listening to England winning the Ashes.


The following day, Nick departed for an assignment in Scotland and I made for Heathrow where I caught a flight to South Africa. I worked on the flight down, interviewing the Cabin Services Director (and getting the cabin crew to 'play' once the passengers had gone to sleep ;-)) and hit the ground running on arrival. A quick shower and it  was off to work, playing hard on location when I could before flying back on Friday evening. I finally arrived home again yesterday morning and I've just got time to catch my breath before it all starts again! More on my trip to South Africa later; first though, the Harrier...   


When I flew out to join HMS Illustrious at sea in June for a close-up look at the newly embarked Joint Force Harrier, I had little idea that just three months on I'd be flying one of those very aircraft myself. To be honest, I'd considered myself unquestionably fortunate to have experienced flying fast jets not just once but twice, having previously flown both the Tornado F3 and Hawk. I thought that would be my lot; I was wrong. Whilst aboard HMS Illustrious, I received an invitation apropos of nothing that rather changed my view of the next three months. 'Wings', the naval officer with responsibility for the safety and operation of all flying ops aboard our flagship aircraft carrier, told me that I would be hearing from a friend of his, Commander Henry Mitchell, RN, a man more colloquially known as 'Commander, SHAR' (that's short for 'Sea Harrier') who would be more than happy to take me on a sortie in one of the senior services two-seat variants of the aircraft. I was, to put it mildly, a little surprised!



Look to the Future: Pictured on the right is the X35 JSF, or 'Joint Strike Fighter', the Harrier's replacement, which is due to enter service in 2012. It is a joint venture with the U.S and several British test pilots are involved in testing of the aircraft which first took to the skies in 2001.  


Until recently, Cmdr. Mitchell was with the Royal Navy's 899 Squadron at Yeovilton from where the next generation of Sea Harrier pilots became acquainted with the aircraft in the T8, or two-crew variant of the single seat aircraft (known as the F/A2). However, with the Sea Harrier's demise, 899 Sqn closed its doors in March this year, and Cmdr. Mitchell needs to fly to stay current until all Sea Harriers retire from service in March 2006 and as the T8 has an extra seat, he's happy to take the odd journalist, celebrity or high ranking military officer/civil servant along for the ride. So last Sunday afternoon, I met up with Nick, who I hadn't seen for a couple of years, and he joined me for the drive down to RNAS Yeovilton in Somerset. Yeovilton is home to the Royal Navy's Fleet Air Arm and it's where both 899 Sqn, and Cmdr. Henry Mitchell were based.    


Arriving at Yeovilton in the early evening sunshine, the place looked deserted. I'd reserved rooms for Nick and myself in the wardroom and we were booked in without hassle. The wardroom there only opened in 2001 and the rooms, or cabins for single officers are well apointed featuring spacious bedrooms, en-suite showers and toilets and plentiful storage. The corridors and various rooms are lined with paintings and vistas recreating the senior service's finer moments and its dining room is steeped in glory, the perfect location for us to eat dinner. Heavily subsidised, the fee for the two rooms, including three course dinner and full English breakfast on tuesday morning was just £32!


I awoke without the alarm on tuesday morning and ate breakfast in the mess to rays of bright September sunshine through the windows. If I'm honest, I felt more than a little apprehensive at the prospect of my impending sortie as previous experience had taught me that I was likely to be very ill either during the flight or immediately afterwards. Still, the opportunity was one not to be missed, so I resolved to just get on with it. We were met shortly afterwards by David, (Henry Mitchell's number two) and Sam, a junior naval officer awaiting training on the Harrier who escorted me to the medical centre where I was to be assessed for fast jet flying. Their comments on the way over did nothing to reassure me as Sam told me that the past two occupants of the Harrier's rear cockpit had both thrown up within minutes of taking off, the most recent flight being curtailed early as the senior civil servant in the rear cockpit was too ill to continue.



Break, Break: A Harrier GR7 of the Royal Air Force breaks right somewhere over the North Sea. Under Joint Force Harrier, all of the Royal Navy's Harrier FA2s will be scrapped by March 2006 and the crews trained to fly the GR7 in mixed squadrons under RAF command. The FA2 is primarily an air defence aircraft and is seen as outdated, whereas the GR7 operates in the ground attack role. RAF Harrier squadrons are already mixed; when I joined HMS Illustrious in June, 1 Sqn RAF had just embarked and consisted of 6 RAF pilots, 4 from the Royal Navy, 1 from the USAF and 1 from the Royal Marines.      


In essence, a Cat 1 or 2 medical is as close a guarantee as the military is going to get that the person they are intending to strap into one of their fast jets, isn't going to die in the midst of a high-g, low level turn. G forces, which I explain more fully here, place the body and particularly the heart, under immense stress so a senior medical officer has to sign you off as fit for the planned sortie. To do so, one undergoes measurements to ensure height and weight are within the requisite parameters for the ejector seat; urine is analysed, along with blood pressure and pulse and assessed against a full medical history; an ECG tells the doctor that one's heart is fit enough to withstand the loads likely to be placed on it and finally, a face to face interview with occurs with the medical officer who then signs you off (or not). No problems there; I passed that particular test with flying colours. After that, it was off to the kit room where I was issued with a full flying suit and assorted accessories to protect me within the harsh environment of the Harrier's cockpit. A short time later, I was driven over to 899 Sqn's crew room where I met with Henry Mitchell for the pre-flight briefing. After lunch a short while later, I changed into my flying kit and we walked out to the aircraft waiting for us on the pan in bright sunshine where I strapped in.



Pensive: A moment's thought whilst walking out to the Harrier on the pan at RNAS Yeovilton. The G-pants I'm wearing are the same as for any other aircraft with the UK military, with the exception of the connector hose and plate which are on the right; for all other aircraft, they are sited on the left. Also, the oxygen regulator can be seen on my Mae West survival jackets, whereas on other aircraft, this is situated within the cockpit itself.


It's cramped, the Harrier cockpit but no more so than any other military jet, an epitome of function over form. It's roomy enough, but that's about it. There's a five-point harness to strap the aircraft to one's back, straps which go around one's legs to anchor them to the ejector seat and countless switches to operate before we're even moving. I strap in, and once the canopy is closed, check the oxygen flow to my mask, which is controlled via a regulator on my chest - down for oxygen and cabin air mix, up for 100% oxygen; I leave it in the down position. With the jet's engine running, I converse with Henry over the intercom, our breathing audible via the speakers in my helmet. I swtich on and adjust my head-up display which projects relevant flight information such as heading, airspeed, altitiude, attitude, g force, climb/descent rate etc onto the horizon and on his command, I arm first the canopy which has miniature detonator cord (MDC) embedded within in, follwed by the Martin Baker Mk. IX ejector seat. Not for the first time, I remind myself that I'm now sitting on the barrel of an inordinately powerful loaded gun, the trigger just inches from my fingers. 


I've long admired the Harrier, both as an aircraft, and weapons platform. In the same way that Concorde was unique in commercial aviation terms, in military parlance so too is the Harrier - quite simply, since its inception almost 45 years ago, there has never been anything else like it gracing the skies. Unlike conventional aircraft, which need to maintain foward motion so that air passing over the wings  generates lift, the Harrier is able to perform a range of manoeuveres in flight that seemingly defy the laws of physics. The Harrier can take off vertically from the hover, like a helicopter, or land in the same manner; it can rotate in flight around a central axis, fly backwards or even sideways. It can also decelerate rapidly in flight, a useful tool for a fighter pilot to have access to and one which proved its worth in the Falklands campaign where several Harriers flown by the Royal Navy scored kills in air-to-air combat against aircraft of the Argentine forces. 



Ready to Roll: Still feeling apprehensive, I pose for Nick having strapped in to await Henry's instructions. Under the various layers of  my flight suit and crammed into the cockpit, it's hot under the 80 degree sun outside. Once the canopy is closed, it will be even hotter - until the air conditioning has cycled up and is effective. 


The key to the Harrier's unique abilities lies in its Pegasus engine. The Pegasus is a low bypass-ratio turbofan that is similar in operation to other such engines, with the additional feature of four rotating nozzles through which the engine's fan and core airflows exhaust. These four nozzles can be rotated through an arc of 98.5 degrees, allowing the engine's thrust to be applied from directly aft (in conventional flight) to straight down (for hovering) to slightly forward (for flying backwards!). To control nozzle angle, the pilot is provided with an additional lever alongside the conventional throttle. This lever is used to select the appropriate nozzle angle for the desired mode of flight, with the addition of an adjustable stop for short take-off allowing the pilot to accurately select the correct nozzle angle during this type of operation. There is also a fixed stop for vertical take-off, ensuring that the nozzles are truly vertical in relation to aircraft attitude.


Using the throttle, the pilot needs to ensure that engine thrust provides sufficient jet-lift to keep the aircraft aloft before 'down' nozzle is selected. However, this interaction between the amount of thrust and its direction is the only major piloting difference between the Harrier and other aircraft, albeit one that needs careful training to master. In addition to the vectoring engine nozzles, the Harrier also requires a method of controlling its attitude during jet-borne flight, when the normal aerodynamic surfaces are ineffective. To this end, a system of reaction control nozzles in the nose (blowing down), wingtips (blowing up and down) and tail (down and lateral blowing) are fitted to the aircraft. These nozzles are supplied with high pressure air bled from the engine and are operated by the normal flying controls. Pilot command operate valves in each nozzle that allow powerful jets of compressed air to provide the desired movement in pitch, roll or yaw.



Roll Out: The Harrier taxies away from the pan after air traffic control grants permission for us to move to the runway and hold.


All that though is for later. Air traffic control clear us to taxi to the runway threshold but we're told to hold as another aircraft makes an approach. We're planning to take off in the conventional manner as, loaded with 6600lbs of fuel, (and this being a two-seat versio of the aircraft) our take off weight means the engine is unable to develop sufficent power to effect a vertical take off.  A short time later, we turn onto the runway threshold and Henry cycles the Harrier's Pegasus engine up to maximum power. I've flown some aircraft in my time, but none has delivered the power in the manner that this aircraft does; as Henry releases the brakes, we hurtle down the runway, accelerating at a simply phenomenal rate. This alone has my adrenaline on fast feed, the sheer speed alone firing my imagination and despite being too heavy to take off vertically, we're still airborne in a shorter distance than any other aircraft I've flown; weight is all relative, and on this bird, it falls away quickly.


We climb out over Somerset and at 10,000ft, I hear Henry over the radio, "Okay, you have control; turn onto a heading of 240 degrees and climb to 20,000ft, please" I tip us into a 90degree bank and make the turn before easing on some more power and pulling back on the stick to watch the figures for our altitude in my head up display rise. As we reach 19,800ft, I ease off on the power and relax my grip on the stick as 20,000ft comes around. I hold us steady in the cruise.



Positive Rate of Climb: The Harrier T8 leaves the runway at Yeovilton, the heat haze from the 21,500lbs thrust generated by the Pegasus jet engine clearly visible.


We're routed first to the Naval Base at Culdrose via Dartmoor, Plymouth, and St. Mawgan before descending over Falmouth for a radar recovery onto the runway at Culdrose, this so that I can see just how much information is available on the HUD to a pilot looking for his aircraft carrier at sea; the phrase 'looking for a needle in a haystack' comes to mind, but the data and symbology within the HUD make the job an awful lot easier than it would otherwise be.


In this case, we're homing in on a runway on terra firma, but the principle is the same; Henry takes back control on the approach to effect a 'touch and go' landing, our wheels making contact with the runway but as soon as they do, Henry applies maximum power again until we're airborne and climbing away. From Culdrose, we make a right turn and head overland to Crediton where we dive down to 250ft for some low level flying. Again, I hear "You have control" and Henry hands control of the aircraft over to me.



On Short Finals for Culdrose: The Head-Up Display (HUD) presents all relevant data to me without my needing to divert my eyes from the screen. Here, we're banking right, our airspeed at 173 knots, our altitude 180ft. 


Flying a loop in the Tornado F3 was a buzz; so was riding shotgun at low level over the Lake District in a Hawk. This though, is a buzz on a different level because whilst I've flown low level in fast jets before, it's been as a passenger - this is flying by my own hand, at 450 knots, just 250 feet above the valley floor which rises and falls beneath me.


It take immense concentration, with no margin for error, but the feeling is indescribable. I feel like I'm in the zone, my mind focused on the data that the HUD projects into infinity over the vista visible through my cockpit windscreen. My subsoncious calculates, my hand making minute adjustments on the stick to take us up, over obstacles, down again, right this way, hard left here. If the mic wasn't still on and my words audible to Henry, I'd be babbling like a baby, so immense is my joy.  



You Can't See it, but I'm Smiling: A self-portrait taken before I took control to fly the low-level sortie. The off/on that you can see on my oxygen mask controls the mic and the square object in its centre is the mask adjustment - lift it, and the mask drops away from my face, breaking its seal.  


As we reach Tiverton, Henry again takes control to effect a demonstration of some of the Harrier's unique attriubutes. He invites me to imagine a combat scenario and tells me from where the two enemy aircraft we're about to engage are coming. He climbs to altitude (height, the fighter pilot's best freind) and despatches the first 'bogey' with a missile, turning after firing to avoid the debris field from the resulting exposion. Next, we need to deal with the fighter on out tail. In any other aircraft, this could be a problem; not in the Harrier though.


Henry takes off amost all the power and vectors the thrust nozzles fully forwards. I feel as though a giant hand has gripped the aircraft and I'm thrown violently forwards in my harness as the Harrier scrubs off almost all its speed in seconds. From a forward velocity of almost 450 knots, we're now in a nose up position vectoring on thrust and it feels like we're hanging on a string. The 'bogey' which was on our tail has suddenly flown right underneath us and as it passes through our line of sight, Henry calls 'Fox two!' and looses another missile from its pylon, turning away again as we down the aggressor aircraft. Two nil to us, then!



In the Hover: Water is clearly visible coming from the left side of the aircraft. This is injected into the outlet where the jet efflux is exhausted to cool the nozzle.


We climb to 11,000ft and Henry again hands control back to me. I fly a loop, easing the throttle fully forward to put on power as I pull back hard on the stick. The ground falls away and I watch the g-meter on the HUD...1g...2g...3...4...4.5. I sense the g rather than see it, the bladders in by g-suit filling and constricting the blood flow, stopping it from pooling in my lower body. I tense my abdominal muscles and I feel my senses dulling as blood deserts my brain and my vision becomes monochromatic. But then we crest the loop and for a moment we're weightless. What was positive g becomes -1g and my stomach flips as I see the deep blue sky beneath me just for a moment before giving way to the most fantastic vista as the whole of South West England begins to fill my vision and we complete the loop. I fly an aileron roll, a 6g turn...I'd breifed Henry before take off that I make a better flyer than a passenger and he's listened to me. I feel fine, not even a whisper of the nausea that's plauged me on every fast jet sortie before. I'm so pumped up, nothing can detract from this experience. I've done it; I've exorcised my demons! I can do this and the knowledge floods my brain. I've felt misery previously, the thought always there that I'd never have made a fighter pilot because of the effects that high had on me. Not any more; I could have done it; I could have made it had I taken a different path; third time lucky, but I've proved myself wrong and managed what my seat's previous occupiers couldn't - I've flown the sortie without being ill!



Terra Firma: Our Harrier touches down at Yeovilton on completion of the sortie having landed vertically.


I hand control back to Henry as, with our fuel down and consequently our weight, he makes the Harrier dance for us. The Harrier is a paradox, a weapons platform designed to kill and maim, yet poetic, graceful in its movements which are redolent of Darcy Bussell dancing at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. We pirouette through 360 degrees with the nose up  before turning back for Yeovilton where Henry bleeds off almost all the power, vectoring on thrust alone. With just 50 knots of forward speed, Henry turns the nozzles through 90 degrees and we drop down to earth on a cushion of thrust from the efflux produced by the Pegasus engine.


We roll forwards and, power on again, I'm thrown back hard into my seat as we take off and go around to set up for a vertical landing. Henry uses vectored thrust to maneouvre us sideways, the Harrier dancing laterally as we hover over our landing area. With the nozzles pointing straight down, we settle down to earth in a vertical landing before effecting what's known as a 'press up'...thrust diverted through the nozzles, the Harrier lifts vertically and we climb through 100ft. We settle there, motionless, hovering like a helicopter. My sense are arguing with my brain. I see wings, I know I'm in an aircraft that thousands of hours of flying experience tell me should be falling like a lead weight. But we're not, because this is a Harrier and it's not like other aircraft...it's nothing like them. We settle back down and Henry cuts the power as we taxi back to our stand. The noise the turbine makes as it spins down is wonderful, like a whistle that tails off suddenly. We've been in the air for over an hour and have just 600lbs of fuel remaining, but it feels like we've only been airborne for twenty minutes. No  matter, I'm grinning like a cheshire cat. I've done it!



Thumbs Up: I remove my oxygen mask as we taxi back to the stand. The miniature detonation cord is clearly visible in the canopy above my head. The head rest of the ejector seat contains the drogue parachute which will deploy in event of an ejection.  


Nick is waiting as we taxi to a halt and I give him the thumbs up. I disarm my seat, followed by the canopy and drop the oxygen mask from my face as I open the canopy and unstrap myself from the jet. He snaps a picture as I climb out and remove my helmet but the grin on my face is testament to how I'm feeling. I can hardly contain myself.



Standing Tall: Still grinning and with the same colour about me as before take-off, I step out of the cockpit and remove my helmet to reveal a text-book case of helmet hair. Henry looks away laughing, but it's afflicted him too. The map in the pocket above my right knee shows out flight plan.


Walking back to the crew room for a debrief (and to check on the cricket scores!) I thank Henry for the manner in which he has conducted the sortie. I have no idea whether it's something he has done, or whether perhaps I've adapted, but the effect is the same; I feel exactly the same as before we took off, no nausea, no flight suit drenched in perspiration, no clammy skin. There's no fatigue, either, none of the all-conmsuming tiredness which has washed over me after previous flights. He's modesty itself, the consumate officer and gentleman.



In the Navy: Er...not quite. The high gloss black scheme is a feature on all of the MoD's training aircraft now. It was selected as being highly visible in the air. It also acts as a good mirror on the ground, enabling me to tease my helmet hair back into some sort of shape for my next meeting...  


An hour later, I'm changed and dressed informally; I thank our hosts and we drive across the base in gorgeous warm sunshine to the wardroom where I meet shortly with this lady, Lt. Com. Polly Robinson, RN, the only female member of the Royal Navy's Polar Quest pole-to-pole expeditionary  team. She's delightful, utterly charming as I interview her for a commission I have with another publication and Nick wanders about us, taking pix. Two hours later, we bid her farewell and make the drive back to London and home.



Lt.Commander Polly Robinson, RN: Polly, 29, is the only female to be selected to take part in the Royal Navy's Polarquest expedition, to take place next year. The aim is for the team to walk pole to pole.  


It wasn't meant to be like this; I had this blog entry all planned, lots of imaginative metaphors and analogies lined up to convey my misery, the pain of feeling ill, of another fast jet flight gone wrong for me. I had it written in my head before we'd even taxied from the pan, the disappointment at failing, the frustration of being incapacitated by nausea and intense fatigue. I was ready to conduct the interview with Polly whilst sat shivering from drying perspiration, my skin wan and waxy. But I didn't see this coming. I never envisaged a flight that would draw a line under the others, and with them, my failing. I'm not complaining - why on earth could I? But it's my excuse for a long and rambling attempt at a blog entry on flying the Harrier. Please excuse me - after all, misery and depression are far better and more inspiring muses than happiness and delight, are they not?   


Africa was something else, but deserves an entry all on its own. My mind is still reeling from that trip, my senses overloaded by the relentless activity, the incredible luxury of my hotel and the abject poverty I encountered in the township just 20 minutes away. I'm currently working my way through the pictures from that trip and will endeavour to post something before my next trip away later this week. I've a way to go yet, but it's still good to be back. So, what have I missed? 
18.9.05 21:30


OUT OF AFRICA - LASEDI La BOKAMOSA

Thirty years ago, the headmaster at my Catholic primary school wrote some prophetic words in the school report of my then seven year old self. With extraordinary foresight, he wrote, "X is of high potential. He needs a very structured and varied work pattern to keep him occupied". What he said then is as true today as it ever was, but then I guess he played a pivotal role in shaping the man that I have become.


Fortunately, my work gifts me just the variety and structure that I need, the ebb and flow of the assignments all conspiring to take me away on an adventure, both geographically and intellectually. I feel that I live a charmed life, the foreign assignments indulging my passion for the unknown. I love travel; I always have, and I feel blessed that my work involves so much of it, always at somebody else's expense and to some of the most mystical places on earth. Given that I cherry pick my assignments and that I have a passionate interest or insatiable desire to learn more about whatever it is that I'm writing about, it never feels like work. When I say I'd pay to do my job, I mean it - it opens doors to me, shows me the side of life that I want to know about, puts me in other people's shoes.


I don't write this blog to show off. I don't do it seeking recognition, praise or comments, although sometimes, all of these are forthcoming. I do it because there's a part of me that doesn't quite believe how fortunate I am to experience some of the things life has put in my path. Before they happen, they are no more than dates in my diary, days marked off with a destination, someone to meet, and something to do. I don't know what shape they'll take, or what hook will appear for me to hang a story from. When they're over, I'm left with some images, a vivid recollection of what occurred and a story. That's the professional side. But in the future; when my daughter is older and interested, or my memory is failing, what will I have to prompt me? This. That's it. Once my commissions are taken care of, the copy filed, invoiced and published, this is what it comes down to, my only record of note. I filter the feelings, the thoughts, the joy, the anticipation and the apprehension into this, a few paragraphs buttressed by photos, the heartfelt passion that's present in contemporaneous writing my only connection to what went before. When it's all over, when the next asssignment eclipses the one before, my blog adds colour and depth to the memory, reminds me of what I felt at the time. That is why I write this, why I've stuck with it.


In many respects, this year has been a pivotal one for me professionally, but of all the things I've done, the places I've been and the people I've met, none will stand so prominent as the past seven days. Sometimes everything conspires in life to make things go wrong, and sometimes the polar opposite occurs. This past week has been one of those opposites. The weather didn't have to be perfect when I flew the Harrier last Monday, but it was, the epitome of a late summer's day. I didn't have to do it to the backdrop of England taking the ashes back from Australia at the Oval (Nice one, Shane!) but fate dictated that that was the way things would play out. I didn't have to exorcise my demons and enjoy pulling 6 Gs in a turn, feeling overcome with self-confidence, but those were the emotions I felt. And I didn't have to drive off immediately afterwards to interview a beautiful and alluring female officer, but that's what happened. The fact that my photographer Nick had just invested in a new Nikon D2X body, and was there to photograph the day's events - and that I never feel more comfortable in front of a camera than when he's behind it - that was just the icing on the cake.



Heathrow Express: With the London Underground link to Heathrow replaced by a bus service whilst work goes on expanding links to the new Terminal 5, Heathrow Express from London's Paddington is the winner. Trains every 15 minutes take 15 minutes to make the journey to the airport but it costs - £26 return isn't cheap!


All that on its own would have been enough. But what made this week something special - one to stand out as a peak when I look back over the landscape of this year - was the fact that my feet barely had time to touch the ground as I arrived home, packed my gear into another suitcase and them made for Heathrow Airport. If travel is the greatest way to expand one's horizons, then Heathrow is my favourite way to embark. And flying as a guest of British Airways, with a seat in Club World paid for and organised by them, to a destination on a magical continent with a dynamic and inspiring group of people is as good as it gets. The lovely weather that heralded my arrival via the Heathrow Express, the planned interview of the cabin crew and the night flight, all were grist to the mill for my imagination. Travel was always an adventure for me as a child and those days spent at Heathrow as a child, bound for some faraway place set the blueprint for the adult me when flying; the sense of anticipation remains still.


I arrived at British Airways' premium check in zone in Terminal 1 just before 17:00 and two of the party were already there; J and M from BA who'd made all the arrangements and would be looking after us, together with a broadcast team from the BBC - Cameraman Tony and reporter Geraint. We were introduced, before checking in to await the arrival of the others in our party - and we didn't have long to wait. A short time later came Chief Supt. Ian Thomas, Borough Commander of the Metropolitan Police's Southwark area, together with Insp. Chris Stafford one of his officers. They were followed by Martin Simons, the chairman of Premier League football club Charlton Athletic, and with his wife Lee. Several other members of the Met police had flown out ahead of us, as had a number of Charlton's coaching staff. Together with a number of the teaching staff of John Cabot Technical College, Bristol, and some locally employed BA Staff in Joburg, they would form the 15 or so members of our party.


The reason for our visit was to witness the work that has been carried out by BA, the Met Police, Chartlon and John Cabot College who have been working in partnership in the township of Alexandra. This project began in 2001, when officers from Southwark, an inner-city division of London's Metropolitan Police, were given a brief to support officers of the South African Police Service (SAPS) in Alexandra. The township is a long-forgotten community sprawling in the shadow of Soweto, its better-known sister township. Soweto is like Mayfair compared to Alexandra, an upside-down world where cholera and Aids, domestic violence and child abuse are rife. One in two adults is unemployed, one in four is HIV-positive and more than 90 per cent of children live with physical or sexual abuse. This is a context you have to comprehend to appreciate the impact of 'Lesedi La Bokamosa - Looking to the Future', the project conceived and delivered by the partners in the project.



Fly Girls: 01:30, Wednesday 14th. Some of the cabin crew on our flight to SA pose for the camera on the stairs of our 747-400.  


Three years ago, PC David Snow, a Charlton fan who works in Southwark, dropped in at Charlton's ground, The Valley  shortly before heading off to South Africa. With two South Africa players, Shaun Bartlett and Mark Fish, playing for Charlton, PC Snow thought the club might be interested in contributing to the police scheme. He ended up with more than 100 boxes of football kit, balls and coaching equipment. 'We had so much, we contacted British Airways to see if they could get it on the flight,' he says. 'By coincidence, it turned out they had a community project working in the township of Alexandra.' The Met and BA brought in Charlton's community football coaches and the John Cabot College, Bristol, to talk about a joint effort. Two teachers from the college were enlisted to deliver educational sessions in Alexandra on citizenship, community, health and dental hygiene. BA agreed to meet travel costs, so Lesedi La Bokamosa came into being in 2003.


After a decade of pioneering community work in south-east London, Charlton have extensive expertise in using football to enhance the lives of young people in a community where youth crime is prevalent. All Premiership clubs run schemes for football in the community and Charlton lead the way with more than 50 full-time staff, eight times more than any other club. And the past three years have been testament to that commitment - thrity six male and female volunteers from Alexandra have since been awarded their FA level one coaching certificates, and in the time that the project has been operating, more than 40,000 children from the township have benefited from football coaching and citizneship lessons, a remarkable success story. There were mixed emotions on this trip though, which was to be the final one so that the legacy created by the partners could be handed over to local control.



Piece to Camera: Filmed by Tony, Geraint interviews Charlton Athletic chairman Martin Simons in the galley of our BA aircraft to South Africa.


We waited a short while in BA's lounge before being called to board our flight, one of the airline's two services each evening. Passenger loads were heavy and the flight full, just as it is almost every evening. If there's a nicer way to travel than by Club World to South Africa, I've yet to discover it. You take off at 19:00 and a short time out, you're served dinner (Loch Fyne Smoked Salmon, followed by steak on the way out). A short time after coffee, the lights are dimmed and you can slide your seat back into a 6ft flat bed, don an eye mask and blanket and wait for sleep to come. Six hours later, you're woken up with a hot towel, served organge juice, coffee and a full English breakfast and an hour or so later, you touch down in Africa's early morning sunshine, just one hour ahead of the time zone you departed. You're ready to face the day. My flight wasn't dissimilar except we had some work to do first. Geraint interviwed Martin in the galley of our 747-400 in a piece to camera, and I had an interview to conduct with the head of cabin crew on the flight, the Cabin Services Director. She was a delightful woman as were all of her crew, all of whom chatted with us, and posed playfully for pictures once the other passengers were asleep. 



Working in Partnership: The initiative between officers from the Southwark division of the Metropolitan Police and those of the South African Police Service has paid dividends within the local community as local officers engage with the community. Gradually, barriers are breaking down and already, crime in Alex township is on the decline. 


We were met in South Africa by members of the South African Police who drove us to our hotel, the Melrose Arch, which is widely regarded as one of the best in Africa and without doubt, one of the nicest I've ever had the pleasure to experience. Situated within the exclusive urban Melrose Arch gated community, a "city within a city", the entire precinct is patrolled by 24 hour Security and monitored by CCTV surveillance. Every one of the 118 rooms offers an opulent blend of modern decor with warm natural tones and luxurious personal touches. The sleek lines of the designer furniture are beautifully complemented by relaxing ambience and mood-enhancing lighting. Each room comes standard with a host of first-class business and leisure amenities including flat screen TV with DVD player and 5.1 surround sound system with a host of complimentary DVDs. The mood enhancing lighting means you can set the lights to match your mood and create the perfect ambience - each room is equipped with 21 lights that can be used to brighten things for business purposes or create a warm and romantic effect if desired.



Changing Moods: Just one of the 21 different moods which you can create with the different light settings in the rooms at Melrose Arch. Just visible is the bathroom, resplendent with candles and two rubber ducks (A nice ironic touch) and through the door, the shower room. 


The rooms all come with free broadband internet access for the duration of your stay and the imaginative touches extend to the bathrooms, which are seperated from the main room by a floor to ceiling glass wall on one side, and heavy curtains on another. Each features a luxury bath with scented candles, a separate shower room with a shower head as big as a manhole cover, remote climate control, a fully-stocked mini-bar, tea and coffee making facilities, an executive work desk, international electrical adapters, a safe large enough to store a laptop and extra length King-size beds. What more could you want? 



Abject Luxury: My bedroom at Melrose Arch, a bloke's heaven - 5.1 surround sound system, DVD player and a range of DVDs in room, flatscreen tv, free broadband and a well-stocked bar. What more could a fella want?


Outside of the rooms, the opulence and decadence continues, with a truly charming room: the 1950s-style cigar lounge, with its crackling fire-place, wall of books and a black-clothed pool table (a home from home for us all  over the following nights!) The rest of the hotel is a little more hard-edged, but no less inspiring; the computer-generated plasma screen behind the bar, the floor lighting in the lobby, the dramatic lifts and the cartoonish art create an overall contemporary effect. Big is considered beautiful at the Melrose, from the towering doorman, the tall square furniture in the bar and restaurant, and the 20 trees in giant silver buckets that line the outdoor swimming pool. The hotel has also put its audio engineers to work, installing underwater speakers in the pool.



The World Outside: Within the gated community of Melrose Arch, everything is provided, with 10ft high walls, armed guards and dogs patrolling to keep non-residents out. Outside lies another world, as far removed from the luxury and opulence within as it's possible to get. These three women are atypical of the residents in Alex, sister township to Soweto.


This poolside bar is perhaps the hotel's coup de grace, a place where tables and chairs can be found nestled comfortably in the shallow water, in an avenue planted with trees in ten foot tall metal buckets. The water that the tables and chairs sit in is no more than six inches deep and throughout the day, is heated by South Africa's blistering sunshine. It sits alongside the sun deck which features a number of loungers, each one accompanied by several towels. You simply rock up in shorts or hitch up skirts/trousers, and sit, enjoying waiter-delivered drinks and the most fantastic fusion food, with one's feet in the warm water. It's blissful.



Just Another Day in Alex: Just two of the tens of thousands of children who eek out an existence in abject poverty in Alex. The building behind them, falling to pieces and made from rubbish, is their home.This is the reality of South Africa, the life that exists outside the gated communities where the wealthy and privileged live out of view of those less fortunuate.  


However, if the Melrose Arch development showed us Africa's better side, a shock was in store just twenty minutes away. After an hour and a half in our rooms to unpack, shower and change, we were driven into Alex for a press conference, and the dichotomy couldn't be more marked. Here is a town whose perimeters are clearly visible from the first floor balcony of the police station, but where more than 1 million people live in abject poverty, most of them in hand-built 'shacks'. The corrugated iron flat roofs are constructed from whatever is laying around, weighted down with rocks, dirt, broken chairs and the detritus of the community to protect against the winds blowing off the Transvaal. Here is where the children run barefoot, some clothed, some not; where outside abbatoirs carve up sheep, goat and cow heads for the 'meat' in appalling conditions, surrounded by flies, in unsanitary, stinking conditions.



Health and Safety Optional: One of the butchers at the outdoor abbatoirs works in the 90 degree heat. There is no refrigeration, and the meat sits on the dirt until its required. Flies buzz around, the smell is appalling and sticks to your clothing. Another side of life in Alex.


It's truly heartbreaking to see, yet the inhabitants wander around smiling, the children, like children anywhere, happy, knowing only their own lives. You can't miss what you've never had, you know only your own life, and their joy is a delight. One of the problems which existed previously concerned the way the SAPS were viewed by the community, a relationship of distrust and fear the legacy of the apartheid years. One of the biggest differences the Metropolitan Police officers made in Alexandra was in getting the local police out of their cars to walk around, engaging with the local community. It's the only way you can effectively police any society, an exponent of information, or intelligence-led policing. You talk, you engage, you get to know, and foster trust with those on your beat. It's early days, but the difference is starting to show.



Walking the Beat: PS Richard Hynes talks with his opposite number from the SAPS on one of Alex's main streets.


We walk from the press conference at the township's police station, to the fields where the football coaching sessions are being held. It's stifingly hot, but the people flood out to meet us, talk. Children are everywhere, tomorrow's future running barefoot in the dirt amongst sleeping dogs, discarded offal and the ephemera of a community that has nothing. At the fields, several groups of children are receiving coaching in basic footbal skills from local community leaders previously trained by Charlton's coaches. The football coaching project has had a positive effect on the children, drawing them off the streets at night and into cohesive teams united by a love of the game. It was Nelson Mandela who said that people could be united through sport, and here are those words made real, a whole township benefitting from the skills and investment of a broad brush of disparate UK-based organisations with a common goal in mind. 



Coach: Some of the locally-employed coaches, resplendent in their Charlton Athletic strip, receive a briefing before the children arrive for football training. 


As part of the day, each child to have completed the football and life coaching sessions receives a 'goody bag' containing a number of items donated by the various partners in the project. At the fields, there are 1,000 bags which need to be filled from the wall of boxes that have just been delivered; an eraser, football sticker, team poster and yo-yo from Charlton Athletic; a frisbee, pen and notebook from the Met Police. Various items from BA and a Winnie the Pooh colouring book and crayons. There's nobody else going to do it, so we're all pressed in to service - myself and the guys from the BBC, the BA crew, Ian and Chris from the Met police, Martin and his wife...



"Over Here!": Some of the local children play on under supervision, having learned the rudiments of passing, dribbling, attack and defence. Football has united the children in Alex, taking them off its streets and giving them focus. 


It's blisteringly hot, the sun beats down onto the parched fields, and we sit and stand in rows; several of us sat behind the boxes, rolling up posters, handing out items to other members of the crew wandering along the line with 2,3,4 or even 5 open holdalls. We chat, we joke, we laugh, but it builds team spirit and we're all hands-on, involved in some way. Martin might be the chairman of the Premiership football club, but he's a member of the team first, a fan and a man with a huge heart. There's no airs and graces, no standing on ceremony with Martin, a man with no edges - what you see is what you get.



Take a Breather: Martin Simons takes time out from rolling posters, filling goody bags and walking the line. In addition to providing kit, balls, vests, and strip for the coaches - as well as training them for their FA Level 1 qualification, Charlton FC has also supplied branded goods for the kids.   


"How about ringing David Dein from Arsenal - any chance we can get him out here?", I ask, winking. "Nah, he's busy" Says Martin, "but I can call Roman Abramovich - I'm sure he'd be more than happy". "Sure", adds someone else, "he could throw the holdalls to us from one of his yachts". And there lies the rub. None of us can quite imagine any of the other Premiership club owners rolling their sleeves up in the heart of an African township, engaging with the local kids quite so warmly, or honestly as Martin. Nor staying with, eating, and drinking into the night with a freelance journalist/photographer and BBC film crew. He's unguarded because he's himself and he's happiest when he's involved, doing some good. He'd be here without publicity, because he was here in the beginning, long before the press smelled the story.



Across the Divide: Primary school children at a local school in Alex rushed to the gate as we walked past. Forty or so pressed up to the gate, smiling and laughing with us, reaching out to touch us as we stopped.


"This is not a flash in the pan charity handout," he says. 'To return to Alexandra three years on and see last year's coaches, those from the year before still hard at it proves that this scheme works and can last. The number of children - 30 per cent of them girls - who now have football in their lives is staggering. I am so proud of these coaches, who have not earned a cent along the way."



Where did Childhood Go?: A three year old child in Alex holds a broom. We found her outside her home, sweeping the pathway clear of dirt. No adults were visible and the scene asked more questions than there were answers. What sort of a childhood is this, that a child barely able to walk should be sweeping the path outside of her home?.


Later that day, we watch as the bags are handed out to the 600 or so children who have 'graduated' today and it's worth it just to see their faces. These are kids with nothing; for them, txt spk, iPods and gadgets may as well not exist. This is a world steeped in poverty and the sheer joy and excitement with which they greet each item in the bag when they're shown what's in it is heartbreaking to see. Can you imagine a group of fifty or so 7-10 year old kids in paroxysms of excitement at the propsect of a colouring book, a 5p plastic frisbee, pen and football poster anywhere else? But anywhere else isn't here. Two years ago, when the goody bags were handed out, the children leaving the grounds for the walk home through the township they lived in were mugged by other children who hadn't been involved. Mugged for a holdall and contents worth £2 at most. But then, this is a city where people are shot dead for their mobile phones, and car jackings are common place. Nowhere stirs the emotions and forces you to confront uncomfortable questions like Africa.



Hear No Evil: the local SAPS officers have a great rapport with the children, and humour is used to good effect when conveying a message. The upsides are many, but the project is fostering great ties between SAPS and the local community, breaking down the barriers between the police and the next generation.


Back in the opulent luxury of the hotel bar, we sit and digest the day's events over pre-dinner drinks. All of us quietly asking questions of ourselves, wrestling with the morals of the reality that is life as a privileged white person in modern South Africa. We shower, and later wander across the precinct from our hotel to one of the best restaurants in Africa, Moyo, a place that simply has to be seen to be believed. It's set on five floors, four of which are beneath ground, each different, the rooms carved from the rock. It's an incredible place and we dine outside under the canopy, roaring fires spitting and hissing, but keeping us warm from a number of braziers situated around our perimeter. The food is wonderful, a fusion of African dishes served by fantastic staff. As I stumble over to bed that night, my affair Africa is at its zenith; I've fallen in love with the place, it's people...the whole paradoxical craziness of the place. It's been a long day, and I sleep like a baby.



Enjoying the Joke: Paul Boateng, British High Commissioner to Africa, enjoys a joke with Southwark Borough Commander Chief Superintendent Ian Thomas, QGM. 


The following day, we have a late start and enjoy a leisurely breakfast in the hotel restaurant before transport arrives just before lunch to take us back into Alex where the Rt. Hon Paul Boateng, the British High Commissioner to South Africa joins us for the afternoon. The ice is immediately broken by Martin who hands Paul - a lifelong Arsenal fan - a Charlton shirt signed by each member of the team. I ask him how he's settling down in South Africa, a post he only took on in June...



Once an Arsenal Fan..: Martin surprises Paul Boateng with a Charlton shirt autographed by every member of the squad. Charlton's first XI comprised two South African international players when the project started. The club is known for its ties with the local community back home and was happy to get involved with the project in Alex.    


"It's a country of great contrasts", he tells me, "But I love the place. I've been here many times in the past, and the work being done in Alex by the teams working in partnership is simply amazing...tens of thousands of children off the streets, doing something positve, learning practical lessons on firearms and parrafin safety, healthy eating, personal hygiene...this is one of the few places where the positive is that the results are so wildly disproportinate from the small cost of investment in money, people and time".



Take a Break: One of the children enjoys a water break after a game of football. The children drink from 10oz pouches of water supplied by the local water company.


We chat about Arsenal's start to the season as we watch J, a BA press officer join a group of children learning the rudiments of football, along with his opposite number from the Btitish High Commission. A short time later, we're taken on a tour of the township by one of the local police officers who takes us through the heart of the town...to the house occupied by a young Nelson Mandela studying law, past the womens' hostel, the shopping area which saw an uprising by Zulu rebels in the mid eighties in which over 40 people died, and into the very heart of where Alex's poorer residents live. We wander the twisting, dirty, stinking alleyways off of which single room shacks sprawl haphazardly, each occupied by anything up to 20 or 30 people.



Heart of Alex: A child, naked, peers from the doorway of the shack that she calls home with the rest of her family. What this family calls home lies at the end of a twising alleyway, with a dirt floor, wooden walls and a corrugated iron roof. Hundreds of shacks are linked together, and fires are commonplace; when one burns, fire quickly spreads and whole communities can be wiped out in an instant.   


I take some pictures of the occupiers, the children, life on the street. "The government is tearing these shacks down", Capt. Will Mbweni of the SAPS tells me, "into new accommodation on the other side of town. People are excited about the change, looking forward to the move; it's good for them, it's good for Alex as a whole".



Making Ends Meet: Unemployment in Alex is running at almost 50% and residents have to make ends meet as best they can. Here, two women sell fruit and sweets from outside their shack.


Back at the hotel, we sit in the poolside bar area, our feet immersed in the water as I work through some of the several hundred images I've shot over the past 48 hours. Some of the guys are flying home later, and others are making a presentation at the High Commission the following day and need pictures, which I burn onto a CD for them. Over drinks, we debreif and talk about the day. At 18:30, I get up to walk back to my room to get changed for dinner, but I'm called over by a group of five gorgeous young women, all locals. They work in PR...



Live This Life of Luxury: The PR girls pose for the camera in the poolside bar, Melrose Arch Hotel. The bar consists of a series of tables along an avenue lined with trees planted in oversize metal pots. The tables and chairs are sat in 6 inches of water alongside the main pool.  


"Hey, can we buy you a drink? We'd like you to take our picture, Ja?" Well, it's not everyday that a thirtyseven year old man gets that sort of offer from a group of girls? What else am I to do?! I'm introduced to Gabby, Vanessa, Alexi, Kate and Sophie who are all drinking cocktails after a bad day at work. They fill me in on life locally, the privileged existence they lead as young, beautiful and wealthy white South Africans. There's a group of men and women at a nearby table, each of whom looks stylish, attractive and young. There's a vibe about the place; there's a certain attraction about sitting drinking with your friends, lazily bathing your feet in a warm pool of water whilst waiting staff attend to your every whim.


I've fallen in love with the locals, with the children, the culture, every aspect of such a rich, diverse and colourful continent. Unlike America, which is the same but different, so much of South African culture is steeped in, or synonymous with our own. They watch the same MTV as us, look at Sky News and the BBC. So many have lived here in London, or have a connection with it through parents, or family. They draw cues from our contemporary culture, share similar values, speak the same language. Their lilting, sing-song accent is infectious, charming. They speak English like us, interspersed with the odd 'Ja' or other Afrikaans phrase. They dress like us. But unlike visiting America, there's no jet lag, and the culture seems to offer something so different. It's the fusion of tribal Africa, the rich heritage, the resource-rich lands, the animals...one continenet, so many differing aspects, all connected by borders. I do what they ask, but time's slipping away and I have to shower for dinner, so I thank them and bid them farewell.



Alexi, Vanessa and the Girls: Locals in the Melrose Arch area of JoBurg live a delightful existence of cocktails, restuarants and fine dining. Many have links with England and have spent time in the UK, working. 


That night, we dine at The Meat Company just across the precinct in Melrose Square. The steak is as good as any I've ever eatern, cooked rare-medium to perfection and served with some delicious onion rings. We're late to sit and it's gone half past midnight when we finally wander back to the bar in the hotel. We're the only occupants and we take turns in playing pool, teams of two, winner takes all. It's a struggle as 03:00 becomes 03:30 and the balls seem to multiply before our eyes. Standing up straight is a struggle for some, let alone trying to aim a pool cue! None of us gets much sleep that night; I think I fell into bed at 04:00, but we were all at breakast on Friday morning by 08:30!


Some of the others go back to Alex, but Tony and myself have what we need (me with stills, him with moving pix) so spend the day poolside. We chat on the sun loungers, swapping stories of respective assignments, the places we've been, people we've met. He's easy company, good fun, analytical. He's another straight guy, no edges - we swap details, as most of us have done, agree to meet up back in the UK. I've been impressed by everyone on this trip. I've lost count of the press trips I've been on, yet each has had at least one member of the  group who's odd one out, somebody to upset the dynamic. Not here; we were talking at dinner last night about how it felt as if we'd been weeks in one another's company as opposed to a couple of days. It felt right, we got on, the dynamic didn't just work, it was perfect. We laughed, swapped stories, revlled in what we'd all done. We were a team. I can't recall a better or more interesting trip all year.



Self Portrait: Tony and I sit in the poolside bar soaking up the sun on our final day in the city, swapping stories. I've only reported from one war zone, but Tony's covered them all, from Beiruit through to the current Gulf conflict. He was great company, as was his reporter Geraint and the rest of the team on this trip. I felt mixed emotions on leaving; whilst it's nice to come home, I felt pulled by what we were leaving behind.     


We order lunch at 15:00, the sun on our skin. Tony wanders off, and I sit listening to Pink Floyd's The Wall on my iPod Mini. My feet are cooled by the water, the warming rays of the sun bearing down on me. I've a flight to catch in four hours, but it could be days away yet. Is it really only two and a half days since we landed? Have we really packed so much in? With just an hour to go until our transport arrives to take us to the airport (just four of us tonight - J, the BBC guys and myself, the others are flying back a day later), we wander to our rooms to shower, pack and check out. Then we bid farewell to the rest of the team and play pool on the black-clothed table until it's time to leave.


We have the same crew on the flight back, all of whom have spent the same time as us downroute, at a different hotel. They greet us as we board, and after take off, wander over to us to chat, as we swap tales of our respective trips. The service is top notch and again, once everyone is asleep, I wander to the galley to talk with the CSD over drinks. She's informative, and I learn that there's so much more to the role of a cabin crew member than "These are the emergency exits" or "Tea or coffee, sir?" She's a great ambassador for the airline, jovial and fun, with a raft of anecdotes to brighten each tale. Passenger behaviour on flights, their (passengers') propensity for spontaneous sexual liasons. Babies born in flight, deaths, air rage...it's all there. All amusing, and educational. I bid her farewell at 01:30 and settle down for the night, sleeping through until I'm awoken for breakfast by a stewardess bearing another hot towel. I could get used to this.


And so, that was my week. Three days on another continet, several thousand miles from home with a group of people I'd never met before, but with whom I share a deep and unifying bond. Press trips are like that. By nature, we're all sociable animals, and you're forced into an alien group where you have to get on, make the effort and be part of the team. When it works, there's nothing better. This was a trip founded on the basis of a good and worthy cause, with a group of motivated and determined people all of whom were working to one objective. It introduced me to a country I'd never been to, but with which I've fallen hopelessly in love. Africa does that; it affects people in a strange way, as everyone who'e ever been will tell you. They told me before I went but the words fell on deaf ears. I wish I'd listened now.


If you've stuck with this to the end, thank you. It's been a long and rambling journey, but I thought the subject deserved the space. So much happened, and unconstrained by the parameters of a 2,000 word commission, I wanted to set down everything I saw, tasted, smelled and touched, everyone who's life touched mine and vice versa. Life's too short and I've too many back to back assignments at the moment - without the luxury of writing it all down like this, each melds into one and I'm left only with the memories of the last event. I thought South Africa warraned more than that. If you live in London, you can see the BBC report on the trip during your local TV news bulletin later in October. If you're interested, let me know and I'll get you a heads up on the broadcast date. Most news features on the BBC run to 90 seconds, but this one is getting 5 minutes, so it'll be pretty in-depth. The trip down there opened my eyes for me; hopefully, this blog entry has opened yours a little too.


I've got the rest of today to myself before it all kicks off again; I'm off the the Lake District tomorrow, one of my favourite areas of Britain for the culmination of a two week live-firing exercise by the military which I've been commissioned to shoot. Only a short trip, this one; I'm making the journey by train tomorrow, being met and escorted from the station, put up in a hotel overnignt before travelling home on Thursday afternoon. Should be interesting, anyway. Have fun and play nicely and I'll see you all on Friday when I return.                
20.9.05 13:35


ADVANCE TO CONTACT

This has been an interesting week for me, for all the right reasons - and not a few of the wrong ones. Over the years, I've often felt charmed and have had reason to believe on more than one occasion that I've had a Guardian Angel looking out for me. This week however, for some reason, she appears to have taken annual leave, and boy, do I miss her!


I first noticed her absence when I called over to see my friend Ian on Monday. He was working from home and had told me when I called him that he was planning to give blood at a local donor centre just before lunch, and as it's been a while since I donated, I said I'd go along and do so at the same time. Simple enough, eh? You'd think so, wouldn't you - I mean, what can go wrong? Actually, given past experience, it's a wonder I've been back at all following an experience I had about 10 years ago when the nurse mistakenly went straight through my vein and into the brachial artery. I was none the wiser - and neither was she, it must be said, until she discovered that I'd filled the first container with blood some 5 seconds or so after starting. Even ten years ago, I was no virgin to donating blood, so I was a little alarmed when I noticed that my arm had not only started swelling, but an ugly and absolutely massive haematoma had begun to form across the its length, from my wrist up to my bicep. Minor panic ensued as first another nurse, and then a doctor rushed over to stem the flow of blood from my arm.


They were solicitous in the extreme once the situation was brought under control and couldn't do enough for me, no doubt worrying that a writ might be headed their way. I was sanguine about it; after all, aside from sporting the most monstrous and unsightly bruise I've ever seen on my arm, there was no lasting damage, and it's not like the nurse had intended to do it (or so she said!). I put it down to experience and carried on donating, hence my visit on Monday. Only problem was, my body refused to give any. An indian female doctor who's bedside manner could do with some work stuck the needle into my arm (I have no fear of needles, they really don't bother me at all, but this one was bloody painful when it went in) and the blood began to trickle out. And that's pretty much what it did for the duration of the session, which was cut short after just 10 minutes when the doctor realised that they weren't actually going to get any more claret out of me, regardless of how much I wiggled my fingers. Ian was rather more successful in his donation, but then his vein didn't collapse mid-session.


Things picked up a bit on Wednesday when I travelled to the Lake District by train, (first class and free, natch - courtesy of GNER!) for an assignment, which entailed accompanying the RAF Regiment on a live-fire exercise. The train journey was a great opportunity to relax, watching London give way to the changing face of the countryside, our green and pleasant land flashing past my window as I looked out, dreaming. I was met at the other end, and driven to our destination, the massive Warcop MoD training area. Warcop is situated a few miles from Appleby in Westmoreland, Cumbria and encompasses a series of ridges, gulleys, high and low fells over an area in excess of 24,000 acres. It's the military's main training area for live firing and the high fells act as a natural backstop allowing the use of everything from personal weapons through to more heavyweight stuff such as mortars, grenades, anti-tank weapons and even tanks. The training area can cope with up to 5 platoons on simoutenous exercise, but the unit I was with, 2503 Squadron, Royal Aux. Air Force had the area to themselves.



A River Runs Through It: A member of the squadron emerges from the river which the whole section have had to traverse, covertly and in full kit. They all made it.


The point I joined them at represented the culmination of a two week exercise where the Flight had been playing the role of UN Peace Makers in a conflict involving the fictitious nations of Ostbeck and Maranaya. A series of events over the previous days had occurred, feeding intelligence in to the troops on the ground as a result of the interrogation of captured insurgents, vehicle check points etc. The guys had been involved in section level attacks, and had played out an advance to contact at section level using blank rounds, but the finale was to be a full-scale flight level attack (three sections) using live rounds, grenades and mortars on the following day. I arrived at the camp just as one section were attempting a river crossing. Once that was successfuly done, they established a vehicle check point  at which they arrested a Maranayan insurgent trafficking weapons. As a result of the stop, they discovered the location of Maranayan units, dug in in positions deeper in the Warcop area. A recce patrol was sent out that night (after I'd retired to my hotel, Appleby Manor) and a plan put together for an attack the following day (yesterday).



Under Arrest: A Maranayan Insurgent (played convincingly by one of the regular staff from the squadron) is restrained at gunpoint after soldiers from the section discover an MP5 and some ammunition following a routine stop at a vehicle check point (VCP).Intelligence gained from the arrest led to the successful attack the following day.


Which was where my Angel decided to take the night off. A quick glance in my suitcase told me I'd left the charger behind for my XDA ii PDA so, in an effort to save power, I removed the main battery. It was only when I returned from dinner and realised I had in fact brough the charger with me that I replaced the battery, only to find that the PDA had performed a hard reset, losing in the process everything I had on it; over 12 months worth of texts, all my settings, notes, videos, images, contacts, appointments...the whole nine yards. And all my own fault.



Ready to Roll: Members of 'A' Section, 2503 Sqn prepare to move out to the laying up point ready to start their attack. Note the absence of 'BFA's (Blank Firing Attachments) from the end of the rifle barrels.


When I arrived at Warcop yesterday morning, the sections had been rehearsing the attack, having received a briefing from the officer leading the flight, utilising a 3D model. They were on open ground near their base, letting fly with their remaining blank ammunition, each man and each fire team practising their own tasks to perfection. When they'd finished, they had a couple of hours to clean their weapons and attend to personal admin before the range safety officers arrived to hand out the live ammo - four magazines per man, a bandolier per section, and two High Explosive greandes per fire team. The cammed themelves up, equipped themselves with what they needed and, after checking one another, headed off to the laying up point to await zero hour.



Armed and Ready: A member of 'A' Section establishes watch over the ground to be taken, armed with his SA80A2 individual weapon and four magazines of live ammunition.


Armed only with my camera and various lenses, I joined the Squadron's officer commanding who I'd be shadowing for the exercise and we drove off to the mid point, on high ground overlooking the entire area to be attacked. Here, I was handed a helmet and flak jacket and just as I was about to set myself up, the rug was pulled from under me. "Come on", the OC said to me, "We'll head across country and go in with the fire team on the first attack". Where was my angel when I needed her? Having been stuck at home throughout August, I can't say my aerobic fitness was really up to this, but what could I do? Off I went.



"Grenade!": A member of first section contemplates a live L2A2 HE grenade before throwing. Immediately after the explosion, both he and his fire team partner lay down heavy automatic fire on the enemy position before rushing forward to secure it.


We climbed, we descended, we stumbled and ran, the two of us making a line for the first section which had dug in at the start point to await three explosions as some armoured vehicles were taken out. The explosions, when they came, shook the earth and with a silent command from the officer commanding the flight, the three sections began to move. The first section moved out, and me with them, whilst the second section laid down suppressing fire from our right, the third section in reserve. This set the pattern for the attack as each section went through attack, suppressing fire, reserve, and so on, each leapfrogging the other to secure objectives.



"Magazine!" One of the section commanders loads his SA80A2 with a fresh magazine containing tracer rounds between each four normal .556 rounds as smoke grenades detonate to provide cover for a section on the far crest.


First section went firm and stormed a bunker, throwing two HE grenades to clear it before running forwards with their weapons on automatic. Once they'd secured it, they laid down covering fire for the other two sections to move forwards on to the next objective. A GPMG opened up from my right, its disctinctive baritone note providing reassurance for the sections moving ahead. The ground was unforgiving, rising and falling ahead of us in steep inclines and declines, awkward gulleys. Every step was fraught with difficulty, the long grass and uneven surface treacherous to the unwary. The air was heavy with the smell of cordite and explosives, rent with the staccato sound of machine gun and individual weapons fire. The sweat ran in rivers down my face, into my eyes, my heart pounding as I ran from cover to cover. Dive as a greande was thrown, up again as soon as it exploded, rushing forwards, my camera held high and steady in my hands. Fire a sequence of shots, dive for cover, move, repeat.


My legs were leaden beneath me, my breathing laboured. Infantry ops are all well and good, but it requires a degree of fitness which was a reach for me. Still, there was an objective to achieve, ground to be taken, a story to be written. Onwards and upwards. Live rounds zinged past my head to the right, the second section laying down fire as we moved forwards again, another objective, another bunker. Steep ground ahead, almost vertical. The men moved fowards, up, each finding a foothold, somewhere to find purchase. The disappeared from view over the crest and I was hard on their tail. Antother grenade, some smoke and forwards; objective secured, "Endex, endex!".


The OC was delighted, all three sections performing brilliantly in a cohesive display of team work. Weapons were checked, no live rounds left, each man in the squadron ready at an operational level to deploy anywhere in the world. Several members of the squadron had already performed two tours in Iraq - all the more surprising when you consider that these are not full time soldiers, but auxiliaries, members of the RAF reserve, each of whom has a full time civillian occupation. I was greatly impressed by what I observed. By 16:00 thought, I was back at the station, climbing aboard the fast service for Kings Cross, which though full, arrived on time almost three hours later. Which is where my angel deserted me once again.


Fifteen years or more I've  been commuting to and from Kings Cross. I know the trains, I know the times, I know where and when they go. "Great", I thought, "I'll get the 19.06 fast service". It's a great one that one, gets me home in just over 15 minutes. Check the platform, board and relax. Homeward bound. Except we were still going 20 minutes later. And forty. In fact, we were still going an hour later, as I realised that I'd boarded the wrong train and for the second time that day, arrived into Peterborough, a good hour away from home. On the far platform, through the darkness, a train waited, going back from whence I had come. I ran, laden down with my luggage and equipment. I made it. Only trouble was, it was a slow train. A very slow train. Which got me into my home station an hour and a half later, where I had to wait for a taxi. 22:00 I got in, when I should have been home at 19:25. I went to bed without even unpacking. Here's hoping your weekends are less stressful than the last 24 hours have been for me!
23.9.05 13:13


OUT OF THE BLUE - AND INTO IT...

If there's a soundtrack to the earliest part of my life, it's the playlist of the then fledgling Capital Radio. Radio was a different animal then, a world away from the commercial and self-obsessed beast that it's become today. For starters, there was acres of space between stations on the FM band, unlike the wall to wall broadcasts that you experience today in a city like London, where pirate stations fight for space on the same frequencies as established broadcasters. Capital Radio was a constant companion in our house from its launch in 1974, until I left home and made my own way in the world. It may move quicker than Lee Evans on speed these days, and in its current form, be a bloated and pathetic shadow of its former self (Capital Radio in its 'Fat Elvis' stage, if you will) but back in the seventies, if you lived in London and listened to the radio, you listened to Capital.


The DJs were different then, too - as was the music they played. The radio was always on in our house and it was there in the car too. I was driven to primary school listening to Graham Dene on Capital's breakfast Show. Days off, or the occasional bout of childhood illness (mumps, chickenpox, natch) saw me at home with aural wallpaper courtesy of Nicky Horne, Michael Aspel and a whole host of names who have since turned up on other stations, or, in some cases, been put out to pasture. Remember Kenny Everett on Saturdays? John Sachs on the Late Show, or latterly, the Morning Show? As I grew up and moved away, I listened as a whole Panthenon of current names cut their collective broadcasting teeth on 194MW and 95.8FM, and their voices, the jingles - and the tracks they all played - formed the soundtrack to the most formative years of my life. Even now, hearing an old jingle, or the dulcet tones of a long-forgotten voice like Roger Scott or Tony Myatt, is enough to take me back instantly and suddenly, I'm ten years old again.


My generation's musical tastes are an eclectic mix of the contemporary and the downright bizarre, with, for those like myself who grew up with music-mad parents, a smattering of whatever Mum and Dad listened to thrown in for good measure. How else can I explain the inclusion on my iPod's playlist of early Genesis, the Mamas and Papas, Al Stewart and the Carpenters, nestled in amongst more contemorary stuff like Sean Paul, Rihannon, The Kaiser Chiefs and Busta Rhymes?  My musical taste was shaped by Capital Radio, with a pinch of my parents' own musical leanings added for seasoning, and a private school education to add an appreciation of the classics. Like I said, my iPod hosts a strange and eclectic collection of tunes.


For some reason, I was minded to revisit the music of the Electric Light Orchestra yesterday. My friend Nick, his brother Mark and myself have long been fans of this groundbreaking, and dare I say it, much underrated band and have faced a torrent of abuse from the girls when, at dinner parties, emboldened by wine, we invariably fire up an mp3 of Wild West Hero, or Mr Blue Sky. The use of the latter track by M & S in its current TV ad campaign though, has probably done more to propel the band into prominence once again, with Mr Blue Sky featuring in the top ten downloads on iTunes at the moment. Whatever, it made me revist the seminal and timeless album, which that track is drawn from and yesterday, I downloaded  it - Out of the Blue. Listening to it last night was like sitting in a time machine as long dormant synapses reawokened to the strains of 'Concerto for a Rainy Day' and 'Across the Border', songs I hadn't heard since the album was released in 1977. Chief songwriter and producer Jeff Lynne who was also the band's lead vocalist and guitarist wrote 17 standout tracks for this album whilst on a sojourn to Switzerland and the results that he, together with drummer Bev Bevan, bass player Kelly Groucutt and keyboardist Richard Tandy came up with are nothing short of amazing.



That album is now on my iPod and, together with Pink Flyod's 'The Wall' - another old favourite, both of which sit alongside more recent stuff like Roll Deep, Faithless and Gorillaz, will be keeping me company on my next assignment. I have to say, I was quite excited when the invitation for this one landed on my desk a couple of months ago, but that excitement has now given way to apprehension as my departure date looms and the depths of the ocean beckon me. Once again, my office is in a state of pre-departure chaos, with cables, chargers, cameras and the like spread  far and wide as I attempt to 'pack light' and dispense of any superflous kit. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, I'm off once again to London's Heathrow airport to catch a flight to somewhere hot and sunny. I'm to book into a local hotel where I will be contacted by a Royal Naval officer who will arrange for my transfer on Wednesday morning to one of the Royal Navy's Nuclear Attack Submarines. Once aboard, I will then experience life as a submariner whilst the boat makes the long journey back to HMRNB Devonport beneath the waves. 


I'm due back here next Saturday and I have absolutely no idea what experience awaits me between now and then. I know that submarines are normally quieter than their surface counterparts, and tend to be more stable due to the depth. The air is cleaner than the outside air and many submariners apparently notice the strong smell of the ocean when the hatches are opened after a long spell at sea. I'm aware, and no little awed by the fact that, to produce air when underwater, a submarine uses takes in seawater and breaks it down into its component parts of hydrogen and oxygen (separating the 'O' from the 'H2O'). The hydrogen is discharged back into the sea, while the oxygen is used to allow the sailors to breathe. I know too (and am only slightly reassured) by the fact that radiation levels areallegedly so low that a submariner gets less radiation at sea than a person on a beach does from the sun and other natural sources. So that's alright then.


I'm bouyed by the fact that every movie I've ever seen about, or set aboard a submarine, is immensely watchable and at the top of its genre. I'm looking forward to peering down a periscope at depth, and saying things like "Get me a firing solution and flood tubes two through four, eight through twelve" in a broad Scottish accent a la Sean Connery as Captain Marco Ramius. I'm looking forward to saying "Give me two pings on the sonar" and hearing for real a sound that I've only previously heard constructed in an edit suite. I'm not looking forward to the lack of privacy, the cramped conditions, or the fact that once at sea, I'll be incommunicado for several days, locked into a giant tube devoid of natural light. Still, it's an experience that I couldn't say no to and doubtless one I'll look back on with interest. And the pictures should be interesting to say the least. This trip also marks my final assignment for the immediate future - I've a one day trip to make upon my return, but otherwise, my desk will be my home for the next few weeks, and a return to normality beckons. Any requests before I depart Anything you'd like me to find out about on your behalf?  
25.9.05 12:41


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