Someone Else's Life
SHOOTING ROYALTY: THE PRINCE, THE MINISTER, THE GENERAL AND ME
One wonders what the late Labour prime minister Harold Wilson, who is famously quoted as having said "A week is a long time in politics", would have made of the past seven days.
Looking back over the landscape of the past week, it's difficult to conceive of the world that existed before the bombs exploded in London last Thursday, forever changing the way we regard the events that preceded them. When London finally hosts the Olympic Games in 2012, who will remember the euphoria of the announcement that gave us such a sweet victory over the French? Or will we look back and remember the way the celebrations were cut short by the horror that unfolded as the following day began?
This time last week, things had such a different hue. Monday saw me arriving at RAF Northolt where I was due to spend a week on assignment covering life at the RAF's oldest base. Having been born and raised in London, RAF Northolt has always held something of an interest for me, being situated as it is in the midst of a quiet residential area and adjacent to the A40 in Ruislip, west London.
RAF Northolt has two high profile roles for which it is best known. It is home to 32 (The Royal) Squadron, the division of the RAF tasked with the movement of British and Foreign Royalty, Heads of State and Government Ministers, and military personnel of both the British and Foreign armed forces. It is also the preferred destination for many civilian VIPs and celebrities who enjoy the privacy and first-class passenger handling service available.
Celebrities appreciate RAF Northolt for a number of reasons, not least the discretion that flying into an operational RAF base affords them. Heathrow airport, which is just six miles away, may be Europe's busiest international airport, but high profile celebrities departing and arriving from there have to face all the same intrusions and delays as the rest of us - and come face to face with their fans and the attendent media pack, whether they want to or not. Northolt on the other hand, offers them a sterile, private environment, from which the general public and press are excluded. They have access to private lounges where they can relax, far from the madding crowds and air traffic is significantly lighter than at conventional airports so there is none of the hustle and bustle the average passenger experiences.
The majority of flights arriving at Northolt each year are private - some 7,000 per annum - against military flights of around 5,000. The airport is discrete and offers a passenger handling service whereby cars can drive straight up to arriving aircraft, allowing the VIP to leave the aircraft cabin and get straight into a waiting limo. What's more, it;'s closer to the centre of London than Heathrow, and more accessible too - the A40 runs alongside the main runway and is a major route into the capital.
With Live8 having taken place the day before I arrived, the airport had seen several headlining acts arrive and depart over the weekend - Coldplay, U2 and REM having flown in on private jets. Sir Paul McCartney is a regular and one RAF officer told me he often plays his guitar and sings whilst waiting in the lounge, offering an impromptu private concert to anyone working there. Robbie Williams is another regular face through Northolt's terminal, as are David and Victoria Beckham as they fly between their bases in Madrid and Hertfordshire.
Table for Two? One of the highly polished, veneer tables in the VIP cabin of the BAE 146, bearing the Queen's monogram (c) Black Rat
The main reason for my visit though, was 32 Squadron, which merged with the Queen's Flight in 1995 to become 32 (The Royal) Squadron. It's principal role is as a 'Communications' squadron, charged with flying 3 and 4-star Generals from all three services on offical business. It is most widely known though for its role in transporting senior Government ministers and the Royal Family throughout the UK and around the world. Since the creation of The King's Flight by King Edward VIII in 1936, there has been a Royal Air Force Unit who are responsible for providing air transport for the Royal Family's official duties.
The Ministry of Defence is ultimately responsible for all flights and routes and the squadron is often called into service to provide air transport to senior commanders in an operational theatre. The squadron provides air transport for the Prime Minister, senior ministers and other senior serving officers and it is these duties that account for most of their time. Royal air travel only accounts for around 15% of the squadron's duties.
I joined the squadron over several days and accompanied them on a number of flights to get an insight into the their taskings over an average week. I spent most of Monday talking to various of the other units accommodated at Northolt, including the Officer Commanding 621 Squadron of the Army's Explosive Ordnance Disposal Regiment, better known as the Bomb Squad. They were to be rather heavily tasked come Thursday, being responsible for an area encompassing London and the South East.
On Tuesday though, I joined the crew of one of 32 Squadron's BAE 146 regional airliners for a packed program over the following 48 hours. 32 Squadron is comprised of three flights - 'A' flight, which operates the two BAE 146s, 'B' Flight which operates three AS 355 Twin Squirrel helicopters, and 'C' Flight, which operates six of the smaller BAE 125 business jets. A standard BAE 146 in civil aviation use can carry up to 90 passnegers, but its typical configuration as used by the RAF is for just 19. There are three cabins; the A cabin which carries the VVIP, or 'principal' and up to 5 others; the 'B' Cabin which can accommodate up to 10 of the principal's entourage, and the 'C' cabin which accommodates the crew. Typical crew on a 32 Squadron sortie consists of two pilots, two cabin attendents, a crew chief (ground engineer) and RAF police officer, responsible for the security of the aircraft.
Grounded: A BAE 146 of 32 (The Royal) Squadron on the pan at RAF Northolt. Note the new, low profile 'civillian' paint scheme, designed to replace the more conspicuous red, white and blue scheme.(C) Black Rat
Until recently, all of 32 Squadron's aircraft were painted in distinctive red, white and blue livery but concern over the aircraft's vulnerability to terrorist attack has recently seem them emerge with a low profile civillian scheme. The aircraft are not armed, but are fitted with the most up-to-date fully-automated self defence countermeasures available - Northrop Grumman's 'Nemesis' DIRCM (Directional Infrared Countermeasures system).
Countermeasures: One of the DIRCM pods fitted to the BAE 146. DIRCM protects the aircraft from attack by heat-seeking missiles, and works automatically by detecting a missile launch, determining if it is a threat and activating a high-intensity infrared countermeasure system to track and defeat it. (C) Black Rat
After the Met briefing I walked out to the aircraft on Tuesday morning with the rest of the crew to await the arrival of the principal for our first sortie of the day - HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York. The Prince arrived driving his green Jaguar, accompanied by just his principal protection officer and his Office Controller, former banker Amanda Thirsk. Aircraft of 32 Squadron travelling with a senior member of the Royal Family aboard assume the call sign 'Kittyhawk' followed by a number and an 'R' to signify 'Royal'. This grants the flight priority by air traffic control and other air traffic is routed away from close proximity.
Short Finals: The runway at RAF Northolt is visible off the nose as we turn short finals and prepare for landing after the first sortie of the day. (c) Black Rat.
Our mission was a short one, carrying Prince Andrew on an offical engagement to Humberside Airport where he was due at the official opening of Humberside Police's new helicopter base. At our crusing speed of 300 knots, the flight time was just 45 minutes - no sooner had we reached cruising altitude and we were beginning our descent for landing! Prince Andrew is a personable chap, coming on to the flight deck upon arrival to engage us in conversation. A keen pilot, he rushed to the cockpit again as soon as we'd landed at our destination, joshing with the pilots about their abilities as aviators and mine as a photographer. TV crews from local media were waiting for the aircraft as we taxied to the stand and Prince Andrew was whisked off in a motorcade straight from the aircraft.
By Royal Appointment: HRH Prince Andrew, the Duke of York shadowed by a local dignitary and his personal protection officer, on the ground in Humberside. (c) Black Rat
We were on the ground for just 15 minutes before heading back to RAF Northolt, via a short detour at 1,000 ft over my home town (no matter, it was on our routing, anyway). How different it all looked from height - I did manage to get an image which is of infinitely more use than a map in spotting the local places with which I'm so familiar on the ground. Once at Northolt again, we were joined by Sir Michael Jay, head of the Diplomatic Service and the PM's special adviser for the G8 talks, for a flight to Dundee. We had been due to fly Tony Blair too, but his delayed departure from Singapore where he'd stayed on to promote Brirain's bid for the 2012 Olympics, meant that he would be flying direct. Instead, we flew Sir Michael and Mr Blair's delegation to Scotland for the G8 Summit Talks at Gleneagles which were due to begin the following day. From Dundee, we flew back to Northolt via Humberside where we collected Prince Andrew.
Royal Escort: A female RAF Officer waits patiently in the rain to greet the Duke of York upon our arrival back at RAF Northolt. Close by her is his Jaguar, engine running - the prince prefers to drive himself. (c) Black Rat
Britain was under a thick carpet of impenetrable cloud with heavy rain as we landed back on the ground at RAF Northolt but I was already looking ahead to our next sortie which would take us across to Europe on an overnight stop. The weather at our destination was significantly better there, too! The pilots who'd flown the day's sorties bid me farewell, and a new crew joined the aircraft as it was valeted prior to the arrival of our next VIPs - a brace of senior cabinet ministers due in Strasbourg. Shortly thereafter, they arrived - Foreign Secretary Jack Straw and Secretary of State for International Development, The Rt. Hon. Hilary Benn, accompanied by the members of their delegation and weighed down by the red boxes of ministerial office.
Foreign Secretary: The Right Honourable Jack Straw walks out to the waiting aircraft, accompanied by an officer from RAF Northolt.
The cloud base which gripped Britain slipped away as we crossed the English Channel and gave way to glorious clear skies and the golden sunlight of late evening over France. As we dropped down towards Strasbourg, I was introduced to Jack Straw and I took the opportunity to shoot some images of him in relaxed mood - jacket and tie off, sleeves up and collar open, deep in conversation with Hilary Benn. He's an affable fellow, Straw, popular with the crews on the squadron - and come to think of it, everyone I know who'e ever dealt with him. His character must have a large part to play in his having occupied the post of Foreign Secretary for as long as he has - he certainly seems popular with those who work with him.
In Relaxed Mood: Beginning our descent into Strasbourg, Jack Straw unwinds, deep in conversation with Hilary Benn. Benn is a fourth generation MP, the son of former Labour cabinet minister Tony Benn. When campaigning for election, he used the slogan 'A Benn but not a Bennite' because of his father's reputation as a hero of the left. (c) Black Rat
The red carpet was rolled out for our arrival and as our passengers were whisked away, we secured the aircraft in the setting sun. Our ground agents had made all the arrangements for our transfer and we were driven out through the airport to two SUVs which transferred us to our accommodation, the Novotel in Strasbourg. It was 22:30 local when we arrived, so just time for a few beers before bed.
Setting Son: Our BAE 146 takes on fuel ready for departure the following day. On the ground in Strasbourg, shortly before being locked down for the evening. (c) Black Rat
Our planned departure at 14:30 local the following morning meant a leisurely morning for us, marred only by the stress of awaiting the IOC's decision on where to host the 2012 games. Our transport was booked for 12:30 local which meant we had to leave the hotel - and televised coverage of the voting - before the decision was made. There's something magical for me about 'owning' an aircraft - having it sat there on the pan, cold, inert, waiting. Crewing in at the airport though, the walk out to it, opening it up, bringing it to life; I love it. The whine as the APU is engaged, the aircon starts to flow and the screens and instruments in the flight deck light up heralds the promise of travel.
Making Plans for Nigel: The co-pilot thumbs through approach plates prior to our departure from Strasbourg en-route for London. (c) Black Rat.
We were all of us anxious now to find out the result, our collective will focused across the miles to Singapore where London's fate hang in the balance. The crew chief tuned the HF radio and made contact...just as the verdict was announced. A cheer went up on board the jet, as we erupted into celebration. How sweet a victory - to find out in France, snatching the trophy from the jaws of Paris and hearing the result on your opponent's turf. The last time I felt this joyous was when Arsenal won the Championship at White Hart Lane!
Jack Straw and the Foreign Office delegation were ecstatic as they boarded the aircraft. They'd heard the result whilst at the European Parliament, where he'd addressed a debate on the future of Iraq. Sat directly opposite the French delegation, the FCO contingent had been able to see the disappointment writ large across the faces of the delegates, even as smiles were breaking out across their own.
Farewell, Adieu, Bon Chance: Foreign Secretary Jack Straw, in bouyant mood, bids farewell to his French hosts after a day of talks at the European Parliament in Strasbourg. (c) Black Rat.
The flight back to England was joyous, the mood predictably bouyant. I wandered back to talk with Jack Straw in the cabin hoping to get some quotes from him regarding the squadron. After what happened next, I'm lucky I wasn't arrested for assault though - as I entered his cabin, a piece of architraving fell from the door frame against me, forcing me forwards off balance and into the Foriegn Secretary where I bumped my head against his and knocked him off balance!
"Hello again" he said, grinning. Assorted members of his entourage were scattered about us so I had a huge audience to watch as my face reddened with embarrassment. Still, he was gracious enough to offer me an impromtu interview, even if I had almost knocked him somewhat awkwardly,to the floor - and he was effusive in his praise of the officers, men and women of the squadron. "Flying isn't my favourite pastime" he told me, "but these guys do a fantastic job and I feel completely at ease when I'm in their hands. The cabin on here is a great place to get work done, one of the few places where I'm able to relax and work uninterrupted if need be".
Inconspicuous Ingenuity: Flanked the motorcycle outriders of the Met Police's Special Escort Group, Jack Straw's Ministerial car whisks him off to the FCO in Whitehall. (c) Black Rat.
His ministerial Jaguar was waiting at the aircraft's steps as we stopped on the pan at RAF Northolt and within 3 minutes of us opening the aircraft doors, he was on his way back to the Foreign Office, speeding into London flanked by motorcycle outriders from The Special Escort Group of the Metropolitan Police.
I spent that night in the Officers' Mess again as I was due to join one of 'B' flight's helicopter sorties on Thursday. As it transpired, that was the day none of us could have forseen. I found out about the morning's events from my wife, who called my mobile as I was leaving the mess for the squadron crew room with the news that she was ok and that a series of bombs had exploded across London. She was at Kings Cross station when the bomb exploded on the underground train there and that was my introduction to the news, just minutes after it happened.
Transitioning: A Squirrel helicopter of 'B' Flight, 32 Squadron transitions to the hover (c) Black Rat
As the morning wore on, I saw things unfold from the RAF's perspective as first the threat level escalated, and various sorties were changed, cancelled, or introduced. We'd planned to fly over the affected areas, but helicopter incursions over central London had been suspended by the CAA in the aftermath of the explosion, even for military flights, so that plan was aborted.
The General: Air Vice Marshall Ian McNicholl, RAF - AOC 2 Group, RAF Strike Command.
Instead, we flew to RAF Strike Command where we collected a two-star General, Air Vice Marshall Iain McNicholl. As the AOC 2 Group, he was due at RAF Lyneham for a meeting and as we flew in, the base was a hive of activity. I watched Tony Blair on TV there as he departed Gleneagles, cutting short the G8 summit to return to London, and ten minutes after landing myself at Northolt, watched him emerge with my own eyes from a BAE 146. He walked across the pan, right past me to another Chinook which was waiting, rotors turning, for his arrival, after which it would transfer him to Chelsea Barracks. The rest of that day passed in something of a blur, as I watched the frentic activity unfold around me and began the long fight to get myself home.
Yes, Prime Minister: Tony Blair hosts a press conference in London after cutting short the G8 summit. He returned to Gleneagles later that same evening.
As with 99 Squadron, who I flew with last month, the pilots of 32 Squadron occupy a unique position in the Royal Air Force. They are unique in the RAF in that they fly in 'blues' - uniform shirt sleeves and trousers, as opposed to the 'growbags', or green flying suits that are the preserve of every other military pilot. They fly more 'cycles' - take offs and landings - than probably any of their peers and fly into airports more commonly seen on around the world luxury tours. Later this year, for example, HM the Queen and HRH Prince Phillip, the Duke of Edingburgh will fly to the Far East for a tour. Although the Royal Family will travel there by chartered BA jet, a BAE 146 of 32 Squadron will be fly on ahead and be used by the Royals once in theatre. Wherever they go, the crew go.
They brush shoulders with heads of state, Royalty and Government. They stay in the best hotels, they travel widely, and the flying is some of the most exacting and technically complex that any pilot in the Air Force can expect to face in his career. Small wonder then that places within the squadron - numbering just over 50 personnel in total - are so sought after.
It's a common misconception amongst republicans that 32 Squadron receives extra funding from the public purse to finance its role as VIP/Royal transport facility; it doesn't. It receives funding as an operational squadron, just as any other, and along exactly the same lines as it did before its merger with the Queen's Flight in 1995. It's primary role is military, flying senior officers on official business, but where it has the spare capacity, it will accept taskings from the Government and Palaces provided the cost is competitive. The cost of royal travel by air is met by the Royal Travel Grant-in-aid and detailed breakdowns of costs and expenses are available in the accounts published annually by the Royal Household
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PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES
I like travelling by train; there's something irresistably romantic about it, the promise of somewhere new, different or exciting at journey's end offering all sorts of temptations. I don't mean the daily grind of the commute, of course. Nor the short hops to familiar places. No, for a train journey to hold sway over my imagination, it has to be somewhere new, far enough away to warrant travelling First Class, and with the promise of adventure at the destination.
I had ample opportunity to indulge my dreams then, with a train journey last week, the beginning of a marathon few days of assignments and travel for me which took me away from the monotony of life working from home and into the realms of some of my remaining boyhood dreams. So, where have I been and what have I been doing? Away 'working' on what for me have been two fascinating and enjoyable assignments - aboard the Royal Navy's flagship aircraft carrier at sea, and a day later on to the U.S, the first of three countries in three days. I took in Belize and Bermuda too before I returned home on Monday. What follows is a narrative of what I did and where I went along with a significant number of images to illustrate. Sorry if you've arrived here via a dial-up connection; might be an idea to go and make a cup of tea whilst you wait for the page to load ;-)
So, last week then. A week ago last Tuesday, I was waiting for GNER's 11:00 service to York and a connection to Northallerton in North Yorkshire. Aboard the luxury of one of their first class carriages, I was able to surf the web and send emails, courtesy of the free onboard wi-fi internet access. And before I knew it, I was at my destination.
There, I was met by a representative of the Royal Navy who drove me to RAF Leeming where I boarded a Sea King ASaC helicopter belonging to 849 Squadron RN. We took off, flew east across the North Sea, and after about an hour in the air, with land no longer visible in any direction, began our descent to my destination - three days aboard Britain's most advanced aircraft carrier, HMS Illustrious.
HMS Illustrious on sea trials off the coast of Newcastle, May 24th 2005: Clearly visible is the new third mast at the rear of the superstructure and the redesigned ramp to accommodate the RAF's GR7/GR9 Harrier. These are clearly visible parked at the rear of the flight deck. (c) Black Rat
HMS Illustrious emerged last Novemnber from a two year, £120m refit which saw the ship evolve from a 'force protection' platform into Britain's most versatile strike carrier, capable of projecting the nation's air power and acting as an independent deployed operating base anywhere in the globe.
I joined the ship as she was conducting the advanced phase of an intensive 'working up' program, prior to taking on the role as the Fleet's high-readiness flagship later this month, ready to respond to world events at 24 hours' notice. Having landed, I was met by one of the ship's officers and escorted to my cabin off the Wardroom below deck.
Sun Over the Water: Watching the sun set over the North Sea from the flight deck prior to the commencement of the evening's flying operations at dusk (c) Black Rat.
Illustrious' role is to deliver Air Power from embarked Joint Force Harrier (JFH) aircraft, supported by Sea King ASaC Mk7 helicopters such as that which carried me from the mainland. The Royal Navy Sea Harrier FA2 is to be phased out of service by Spring 2006 with all carrier borne strike operations thereafter being handled by the more powerful Harrier GR7/GR9 of the RAF. These aircraft will be flown jointly by RAF/RN pilots and the integration is already well advanced, with pilots of both services currently flying in the other's squadrons.
The RAF's GR series Harriers are principally attack aircraft, desgined to deliver offensive air power to targets ashore, wheras the Navy's FA2 Sea Harrier was designed as a fighter jet, to protect assets within a Carrier Group at sea. With the increasing focus on power projection from the sea, the senior service had to accept that proposed upgrades to the FA2 should be sacrificed in favour of investment in the far more potent offensive air capability offered by the GR9
Silent Sentinel: HMS Illustrious' 'Goalkeeper' Close In Weapons System, designed to shoot down missiles and aircraft which have evaded the outer layers of a ship's defences
No other platform provides the flexibility, power projection capability and command and control facilities of an aircraft carrier. As the World's political landscape changes and new threats to the stability of peace emerge, the United Kingdom relies increasingly on Illustrious as an important enabler of foreign policy and I was onboard to observe at first hand just how capable she was at fulfilling that role.
I watched with interest as the Royal Fort Victoria, one of the Royal Fleet Auxilliary's supply ships pulled along our starboard bow just hours after my arrival to begin cross decking supplies, food and fuel for Illustrious' mission. Whilst being fully conversant with the operations of our air force, I was on virgin territory with the Navy and I was standing on a steep learning curve. After dressing for dinner in the Wardroom where I met with the ships' senior officers, I just had time to change back into working dress for the night time flying operations from the newly refitted flight deck.
I've long held a fascination for the Harrier, perhaps the most amazing piece of technology ever to grace the skies. The key to the Harrier's unique abilities is its Pegasus engine, a low bypass-ratio turbofan that differs over other engines through the additional feature of four rotating nozzles through which the engine's fan and core airlows 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 and slightly forward (for flying backwards!)
Dusk Take Off: A Sea Harrier FA2 of the Fleet Air Arm's 801 Squadron cycles its Pegasus engine as it begins its take off run along Illustrious' flight deck.(c) Black Rat.
Although capable of vertical take off, carrier borne Harrier operations utilise the ramp to give additional lift to the aircraft via a short take off run. This allows them to get airborne with a greater payload of weapons and fuel than could be achieved via vertical take off. Even so, the short take off run is a sight to see and being in such close proximity for the evening's photoshoot illustrated the aircraft's immense power in a truly memorable manner.
Predictably, I had a late night spent chatting with some of the ship's officers over drinks in the wardroom. The gentle rocking of the ship as she made progress through the North Sea meant that sleep had no problems finding me when I evenutally retired to my cabin, though. Awoke to the boatswain's whistle broadcast over the tannoy at stupid o clock the following morning and dressed for breakfast in the wardroom followed by an early start for a packed program of events and interviews. I was up on the flight deck first thing for the first of the day's flying operations, as the embarked Harriers of 1 Squadron RAF began the first of the day's many missions.
The Ramp: An RAF Harrier GR7 sits parked on the incline of the ramp on the flight deck. The Harrier GR7 is recognisable as it is somewhat larger than the FA2 Sea Harrier. It is noticeable too for the wheels, which extend from mid-way along the wing on the GR7 as opposed to at the outermost tip on the FA2. (c) Black Rat
The aircraft performed a number of fly-bys in close proximity to the ship before returning to land 50 minutes later. This is a truly incredible sight to behold close up, almost poetic to watch. The aircraft form up together on the port bow, decelerating to the hover. The exhaust of the jets, vectored downwards in the hover, creates an amazing spectacle as the sea boils angrily below, throwing up a spectacular amount of spray beneath the aircraft. The aircraft then 'crabs' sideways until it is directly above the flight deck at a height of around 50 feet or so, at which point the pilot simply shuts off the power and the Harrier drops from height to settle down onto its undercarriage on the deck below.
Hovercraft: A Harrier GR7 of 1 Squadron RAF hovers over HMS Illustrious' flight deck seconds before the pilot cuts power to land onboard the ship. Clearly visible at the rear of the deck is an RN Sea Harrier with its distinctive wingtip gear (c) Black Rat.
I spent some considerable time that day chatting to the embarked ranks of the RAF, interested in hearing the perspective of men who had joined Britain's air service and who had then been sent to sea. The feedback wasn't all positive, but it was thoughtful and considered - and given that the men had only been at sea for three days, bound to be unshaped by experience. Useful all the same though.
From there, it was off to the Bridge to interview the ship's Commanding Officer, Captain Bob Cooling, RN who gave me an interesting viewpoint in terms of the ship's capability and the challenges of commanding a mixed company of men and women from different branches of the military together with the offer of a flight in a two-seat Harrier T8 at a date to be arranged. Er...thank you very much! The afternoon was spent getting an introduction to the ship's engineering and weapons capability including an exploration of its capacious hangar and two garagntuan lifts capable of carrying aircaft from below decks onto the flight deck. Later in the evening, I went flying in a Sea King for an aerial photoshoot of the ship at sea.
I barely had time to catch my breath when I was eventually flown off the ship into Newcastle airport where another Royal Navy driver sped me to the city's train station and my onward connection to London. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon and just had time to shower before heading off on my next assignment which meant arriving at RAF Brize Norton for 23:00 that evening where I was to join 99 Squadron as supernumerary crew for a three-part mission to San Antonio departing at 05:00 last Friday morning.
On the Pan: Our C-17 Globemaster III sits on the apron at RAF Brize Norton as we complete pre-flight checks before departure for Kelly Field, San Antonio, TX (c) Black Rat.
Joining as a member of the crew carried certain advantages, but the departure time wasn't one of them - after just two hours sleep in a room at the Gateway Hotel on base, I was whisked off to 99 Squadron's crew room to meet the rest of the crew for our 03:00 briefing. Here, I met Squadron Leader (soon to be Wing Commander) Simon 'Spoons' Edwards and Flying Officer Ben Mountfield (captain and co-pilot respectively).
Crew's Control: The crew of Ascot 6709 muster on the steps of the C-17 before departure (c) Black Rat
99 Squadron was only reformed in 2001 when it took delivery of the first of its now current four Boeing C-17 Globemaster III heavy lift aircraft. These were leased from the manufacturer for a seven year term to fulfil a requirement in the Strategic Defence Review for a strategic airlift capapbility for the RAF. The aircraft features many advanced features such as winglets, a highly efficient wing and high-performance engines. The aircraft's excellent short field performance is achived by extending the wing flaps into the jet efflux, allowing the aircraft to put down on unprepared landing strips of just 3,000ft when fully loaded. This feature also affords the aircraft considerable tactical capability, allowing it to descend at an incredible 25,000ft per minute! The C-17 is the RAF's most state of the art aircraft, featuring a 'glass' cockpit with head-up displays and multi-function screens in place of switches and dials, and fly-by-wire control systems.
State of the Art: The so-called 'Glass Cockpit' on the flight deck of the C-17, somewhere over the Atlantic, 27/05/05 (c) Black Rat
The mission seemed straight forward enough in outline; the C-17s, which are the RAF's main heavy lift capability between the UK and Kandahar, Afghanistan/Basra, Iraq are undergoing an upgrade program at the Boeing Aerospace Support Centre facility at Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. One aircraft had been completed and was awaiting collection from there; the one we were flying was to be left in situ for its upgrade over the next 55 days.
USAF C-17 Globemasters: Awaiting work outside what is purportedly the longest aircraft hangar in the world at Kelly AFB (c) Black Rat
Our mission timing would see us on the ground in San Antonio at 08:30 local with 24 hours rest before an onward routing to Belize, nestled between Guatemala and Mexico on the Caribbean coast. Here, we would load on 18 pallets of equipment from a recent exercise by British troops who had been jungle training in the area, and fly on to the sun-kissed island paradise of Bermuda where we would overnight before flying home again early on Sunday afternoon. The plan would see us visiting three countries in three days, arriving home to Brize Norton at 23:00 local on Sunday night. Hardly the most troubling of missions, and one which was as novel for the crew as it was for me. Easy enough.
Above the Below: Two airliners pass us several miles to port and several thousand feet apart somewhere over the coast of Ireland.
After briefing, we were driven out to the waiting jet, one of the biggest aircraft in existence. It can carry Tornado F3 fighter jets within its capacious fuselage. Or a brace of Apache gunships, or tanks - you name it and the C-17 can swallow it. So to say it's roomy inside would be an understatement of Herculean proportions. It's huge - epecially the cockpit area, reached via a staircase. This leads up to a crew rest area behind the cockpit containing two seats and two full-size bunks which can be curtained off for privacy. Through a doorway is the flight deck itself, again one of the largest out there. As well as the two pilots' positions, there are also observers' seats directly behind each. Fully adjustable on every plane, inordinately comfortable and next to a huge window, they offer a commanding perspective on events. Plumbed into the aircraft's comms system via my David Clark headset, I was able to communicate with the crew whilst listening to air traffic control and the traffic from other jets in our airspace.
Turning Hard Left at 37,000ft: Ben makes some adjustments to 'George' the autopilot following instructions from Shannon Air Traffic Control who handle 'high level' traffic ex-UK bound for North America.
The flight across the Atlantic was magical. I'm always at my happiest when flying and never more so than when involved in the action. The view from the office is unrivalled for me, like nothing else - that feeling as you punch through cloud cover and into the deep blue of the tropopause five miles up - what it there to compare with it? You see things from here that you're denied sat back in the 'cheap seats' on a commercial flight. You see other aircraft sharing your airspace passing head-on and below, or head on and above. Jets tracking you from a couple of miles abeam or heading towards you. You get instruction from ATC to move up a couple of thousand feet to avoid a jet climbing towards your vector...it's constant, involving, magical.
Conversation was free-flowing, Ben and Spoons easy and amusing company and we quickly developed a bond between us. Ben was pilot flying the outbound leg and the officer in charge of the imprest, the cash in local currency handed out to the crew to cover their expenses whilst away. We talked of our plans for on the ground Stateside, the nightspots around San Antonio. We were interrupted periodically by the Air Loadmaster who served us full English breakfast prepared in the aircraft's galley, snacks and copious quantites of tea and coffee.
Self Portrait, Taken Somewhere over U.S.A: The C17's flight deck has plentiful windows offering unrivalled views of the air and ground.(c) Black Rat
Both Spoons and I grabbed some sleep about two hours out and I managed about three hours rest - more than enough to refresh me for the day ahead. Fully reclined on a full length bunk with pillows and blankets, it didn't take me long to drop off and when I woke up, we were over half way into our flight. Time passed immeasurably quickly after that considering we'd been staring almost 11 hours flying time in the face that morning, but before I knew it, we had begun our descent for landing at Kelly. Once on the ground, we were met by an advance party of RAF who were there to smooth over the handover of the jet we would be flying back, and driven to our hotel - the Drury Inn and Suites in Riverwalk, downtown San Antonio.
The Alamo: The most famous spot in Texas where 189 defenders fell on March 1836 after repeated attacks by Mexican General Santa Anna's army (c) Black Rat.
Couldn't complain at the accommodation - the room had a microwave containing popcorn, the minbar had free soft drinks, and there was also free internet and long-distance (pan-USA) phone calls. We all got vouchers on check-in for three free Budweisers each in the bar too, so none too shabby there - never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh! A quick bath and change, and we wandered off to explore the Riverwalk and the Alamo before meeting for drinks at the bar later than evening. Suitably refreshed, the whole crew hit downtown San Antonio, taking in Hooters, Coyote Ugly and a host of other bars. And this is supposed to be work?!
We mustered at breakfast the following morning at 07:30 local and our wheels arrived 30 minutes later for the ride back to Kelly AFB and our waiting jet. Pre flight checks were quickly dispensed with, briefings taken care of and we started engines and taxied out. It was as we began our take of run that problems started, the warning annunciator panel telling us that the pitot head heater on two channels had failed (a pretty major failure given that the pitot heads are the basis of airspeed readings). Spoons made a decision as captain to abort take off and we were cleared by ATC to return to the Boeing stand from where we'd left and said our goodbyes shortly before. The head up display (HUD) tells it all:
Going Nowhere: A USAF KC-10 Extender viewed through the co-pilot's HUD, which tells us all we need to know about our mission - 'Do Not Taxi' leaves no room for misinterpretation.
It made sense to return - if your aircraft is going to go tech, the place to be is at the manufacturer's facility. Boeing engineers were all over the aircraft as soon as we shut the engines down and systematically took the cockpit apart trying to trace the fault. We occupied ourselves in the hold until, two hours later, the fault was traced to a loose wire. Fault rectified, we were back on taxi out within 30 minutes and in the air by 13:00 local for Belize.
The fault on our take off run should have been an indicator of what was to follow, but we couldn't have known. No sooner were we on the climb out when the flight computers crashed and the auto throttle warning kept sounding. The computers were reset and a manual overide effected on the auto throttles, but the computer kept telling us that the thrust reversers were deployed in engines 1 and 2 - which clearly they weren't. We finally settled into the cruise at 37,000ft and Mach .760.
Our late departure rather messed up our planned routing as we estimated that by the time we arrived at Belize and loaded on the pallets, we'd be too late to make Bermuda that night. Spoons decided on us overnighting at Belize but worked out that the full load, plus fuel required for Brize Norton would mean we would be unable to take off from the available runway at Belize the following morning, therefore necessitating a stop in Bermuda anway. From a crew rest perspective, an overnight at Bermuda the following day made most sense, so he used the aircraft's built-in sattelite phone to call UK Ops with his request. In the mean time, we munched on hot beef burritos served by Jim, the air loadmaster. Tough call.
If the cockpit had been a fabulous place to be on the flight over the day before, it was as nothing compared to this leg of the mission - awesome views across the clear skies and deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Our divert for most of the flight was Cancun which we all lusted after and banter over the mic consisted of us all trying to inveigle ways to justify us heading there. The irony is that it would almost be worth the invention of a minor problem as on the face of it, a divert to Cancun would appear so audacious, Strike Command would probably accept it at face value. Bonus!
ET Phone Home: The C-17's cargo hold, chilled by the aircraft air-conditioning, meets the humid climate of Belize as the loadmaster and Belize-based UKMAMS open the hold. (c) Black Rat.
Regular readers of this blog can't be unaware of my envy of fighter pilots, but honestly, they have nothing on this. Think about it - their job gets all the glamour but it means suiting up in a constricting flight suit, helmet and G-pants, sitting alone in a cramped cockpit for several hours, pissing into a bottle, and having to mentally calculate the effect on fuel of travelling at over 7 miles a minute. C-17 pilots on the other hand have a relatively easy time once the aircraft reaches top of climb and the autoilot is engaged - the flight deck is modern, spacious and comfortable. The crew get time to relax, walk around, read, sleep and eat hot food and drinks prepared for them in the full-size galley. They even have use of a full-on airliner lavatory! I finally realised, I don't want to be a fighter pilot when I grow up anymore - I want to fly these - especially if you get to go where we did. Like here:
On the Ground in Belize: Spoons took this snap of me opposite our hotel in Belize City just minutes after we checked in for the evening (c) Black Rat.
Having phoned our change of plan ahead mid-flight, everything was arranged for us as soon as we touched down in Belize. The ground agent responsible for making the arrangements boarded our aircraft, told us where we would be staying and a taxi drove out to meet us, as Spoons, Ben and myself loaded our gear and headed off. We'd been booked into the Radisson Fort George in Belize City, natch and wasted no time once we arrived - we dumped our gear, changed into our swimming shorts and made for the poolside bar for ice cold Belikin Beer, Red Stripe and big gay cocktails - well, we had limited time for R and R and wanted to make the most of it!
Poolside in Belize City: Spoons (left) and Ben show how stressed we are at being so far from home. Note the big pink gay cocktail in the centre of the picture (c) Black Rat.
I can't think of a happier memory so far this year than the afternoon the three of us spent drinking beer poolside in Belize. We watched the sun go down, swam, drank and laughed until our sides ached, marvelling at the privilege of our respective jobs which placed us in this ridiculous situation in the first place. The humidity and 92 degree temperature was unbearable though, necessitating ever more drinking and swimming to cool off!
Before we'd had too much to drink, ops called Spoons from the UK to advise that they'd agreed his plan for us to overnight in Bermuda too - before telling us that this had been negated by the news that a soldier on exercise in Belize needed to be flown home urgently on compassionate leave. The military pulls out all the stops for compassionate cases, diverting missions and utilising every resource both civillian and military to get their own home in the shortest possible time. That solved it for us; make the most of our time on the ground in Belize for tomorrow, we'd be going home. That night, we sat at the bar, swapped stories and ate in the hotel restaurant as our cicradian rythyms cursed us. We were running on Zulu time as all our mission timings were based on this, but our lives were lived around local time - never a good mix.
Are You Local?: Harry, 69, a native of Belize City poses for the camera after giving me an impromptu lesson in Britsh history (c) Black Rat.
I awoke at 04:30 local the following morning without the alarm, despite having fallen into bed at gone midnight local (I'm paying for it all now, don't worry!) and having showered and packed, I wandered the streets with my camera as Belize City came to life. Outside of the hotel, I bumped into Harry, a 69 year old local who's job seemed to be to sit streetside to talk to visiting photographers like me. He proceeded to talk me through all the things that make Britain great. I got a blow-by-blow account of the greatest ever Englishmen and the impact they've made on society - Cockerell, Stevenson, Newton, Whittle, Cromwell, Churchill - Harry knew the story of them all, and loved Britain for its democracy and freedom. He loved us too for what we did to Belize - but not for having pulled out in 1981 and given it independence. Life was better when we were there, according to Harry.
On the Ground in Belzie: Our C-17 as seen from the taxiway at the grandly-named Philip Goldson International Airport, Belize City. They did agree to stamp by passport as a favour before we flew out though! (c) Black Rat.
Our take off from Belize, accompanied by James, the soldeir flying home on compassionate leave, was uneventful and we were off the ground by 07:50 local, burdened this time with 87,000lbs of cargo and 108,000lbs of fuel - sufficient for our mission to Bermuda, plus some extra for diverts and delays.
Little Fluffy Clouds: The crystal clear waters of the Caribbean Sea lap at the white sands of an unidentified archipelago somewhere between Belize and the Florida Keys.
This leg of the flight was fueled by cup after cup of black coffee - and a spicy chicken curry served as 'breakfast' an hour and a half into the flight! It might be early morning where we are, but in the meaningless of space, we're officially on Zulu time which means dinner. The view from my oversized window at left though is just as awesome as on the flight across the Gulf of Mexico as we bank steep left, fly over the Caribbean islands and the Florida Keys and see Miami Beach with its signature beachside skyscrapers 37,000ft below us.
Where's Your Head at?: The pilot's view through the Head-Up Display as we make a steep left turn at 37,000ft.The HUD enables the pilot, copilot, and other flight crew to visually observe aircraft flight data while maintaining exterior situation awareness (c) Black Rat
We're vectored down to 33,000ft for most of the flight, an altitude which is punctuated by the tops of Towering Cumulonimbus (TCB) clouds which show up on the weather radar as thunderstorms. We fly a vector around them, but as we leave the Caribbean and head towards Bermuda in the Atlantic, the CBs blend into a carpet of stratus which blankets the sky as far as the eye can see. A diifuclt approach and landing at Bermuda are well handled by Ben who is flying this leg of the mission - we gain a late visual on the runway for the visual approach and the winds are gusting at 30 knots as we fly finals.
On Finals for Bermuda's Runway 30L: Our position to the right of the centreline gives some indication of the strength of the gusts. (c) Black Rat
We're only due to be on the ground in Bermuda for an hour or so - just long enough to take on the fuel we need for the final leg of our flight - but the gremlins in the system start to make mischief again, manifesting themselves this time in the Mission Control computers which fail. This is sufficient in itself to render the aircraft U/S under any other circumstance, but given ou mission to repatriate the compassionate case (designated Comp-A in military terms, the most urgent classification), Spoons pulls out all the stops and pulling the circuit breakers and reinstalling the relevant bus solves this problem. An hour later than planned, we're off again, departing Bermuda at 20:00 Zulu.
On the Deck in Bermuda: Our C-17 Globemaster III shortly after touch down at Bermuda International Airport, our third and final country in three days (c) Black Rat.
Our flight plan from Bermuda is to fly to Manchester International Airport to drop off our Comp-A passenger where a car will whisk him direct to his final destination. After 20 minutes or so on the ground there, we will fly direct to Brize Norton with an estimated arrival time of 04:00 local - nice!Once we reach top of the climb at 35,000ft, both Ben and Spoons spend some considerable time planning their approach and reading up on Manchester Airport, somewhere neither have landed at previously. As a major commercial airport, it has countless rules governing every aspect of flying operations and given the unusual hour at which they will be receiving us, there is much to do to ensure that correct approach procedures are followed.
Heading east across the Atlantic, we leave mid-afternoon behind us with the sun and fly into the inky black of the night time sky. Dusk comes in minutes, but gifts us the most fabulous display of golden light which bathes the cockpit in warm hues whilst the clouds and sky outisde are a miasma of purples, reds and organge. I jump into Ben's seat as co-pilot whilst he goes for a walk and when he returns, he offers to take a picture of me in situ:
Dusk over the Atlantic Ocean: The light show lasted a matter of no more than fifteen minutes and marked the dividing line between the sunny afternoon in Bermuda, and the night time sky over the North Atlantic and Europe. (c) Black Rat
Just before 01:00 Zulu, Spoons tells Ben that he's going to grab a couple of hours sleep prior to flying the approach to Manchester. Ben gets up to visit the toliet before taking control of the aircraft and the minute Spoons and I are alone, all hell breaks loose in the cockpit as klaxons sound and the warning annunciator panel gives us horrifying news: We've just lost all fuel from the No1 tank! We're just past 20 degrees west, at mid point over the Pond and hopelessly out of reach of any diverts. All the indicators are that we're headed for a watery grave, and I'm busy saying silent prayers and saying my goodbyes as Spoons curses, saying "What the fuck?"
The fuel state on the overhead panel tells us we have no fuel. A loadmaster is despatched to check visually for any leaks as the flight instruments tell us that we still have power to all four engines - something which the warning is telling us is not possible.
Ben returns and is brought up to speed on events and I watch the art of cockpit resource management in action as an observer on the dynamic between Spoons as captain, and Ben as his co-pilot with the input of several loadmasters. There is a reaction and an action for every possible failure, warning and breakdown on an aircraft and checklists to follow, all of which swing into action to combat this latest, and most worrying of warnings. A full and frank discussion takes place to ascertain whether the warnings we are receiving are real or spurious, plus action required. In essence, we are unable to rely on indicated fuel state, meaning manual computations are required for estimated fuel burned and remaining, approach speeds etc. At 01:20, Spoons makes a decision to divert straight to Brize - Manchester is now off the agenda as the minute the plane touches down anywhere, it will be grounded as u/s.
Half an hour later, just as we are preparing to divert and advise UK Ops of our plans, the fuel computer comes back online and we have a fully serviceable aircraft once again. But ten minutes later, the computer goes offline again and we start receving warnings of bizarre behaviour (spurious) by both 1 and 2 Engines. We advise Shannon ATC of our status and request, and are granted, a direct routing to Brize, being cleared immediately to descend from 33,000 to 8,000ft. We're handed on to Shanwick ATC who ask us if we wish to declare an emergency, although at this stage, Spoons is confident that we're in no immediate danger and confirms that we are requesting only direct clearance. The cockpit lights are dimmed and all that's visible are the panel lights suspended in the night sky. We watch the moon rise on the nose of our aircraft as we descend straight down for a landing at Brize Norton and we're on the ground by 03:00, back where we started. Mission complete.
Flight Plan: A selection of the flight plans and maps used for navigating our way around the Atlantic and Caribbean (c) Black Rat.
Spoons and Ben write up an incident report back in the squadron ops room, as I relive those initial few seconds when, not knowing the warnings were spurious, I was convinced we were headed for a watery grave. It's too early for me to make my way home, so I take Spoons up on his offer of a bed at his, and head back later on a sunny bank holiday monday.
It's taken me most of this week to recover and given what I've seen and done in the past week, the events at the beginning seem like an age away. It was nice to see my own bed again though, even if I have woken up each morning feeling tired, disoriented and confused (no change there, then! - Ed). I feel privileged that my work has taken me on such a fascinating voyage of discovery, introduced me to some great people, and let me indulge my love of aviation. From an objective viewpoint, it was also interesting to observe the dynamics of flight deck emergencies at first hand, especially given the frequency with which they occurred and the professionalism with which they were handled. It's not unusual, given the severity of the upgrade from which the aircraft had come, but a few days with an RAF ground crew will soon chase down any remaining gremlins in the system.
For me, I now have a mountain of work to write up, copy to file and a couple of thousand images to edit and work up. P leaves me today for a city break to Prague with a friend, so I've a weekend home alone until her return on Tuesday evening. I shall endeavour to enjoy this weekend - make sure you do too. And if you've stuck with this entry to the end, thank you - normal service will be resumed next week.
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VALLEY GIRL - A FLIGHT OF FANCY
One of the more bizarre aspects of my existence is the dichotomy between my work and home lives. I can go weeks where I rarely seem to leave my desk, writing press releases and features from afar, just a few hundred words of puff that I can fit in around the school run and the vagaries of being a house husband. During those times, blogging is like a busman's holiday, a diversion to pass the time of day. Then there are the periods of news reportage which see me flying off at short notice to some far-flung, troublesome corner of the globe to write straight forward, factual reports of events such as earlier this year when I was based in Baghdad. Internet access is widespread, and I see and hear things which lend my blog a different hue.
More frequently though, it's the features assignments that land on my desk with no certainty attaching other than that they will take me away on a journey, both geographical and intellectual. My recent absence from here is as a result of one such event.
Whilst news reportage is the bread and butter of any journalist's work, it's the features that really inspire and encourage the passion which lies within, enabling us to really dig deep and immerse ourselves in the life of another. When an editor calls with a prospective feature for me to undertake, or I secure agreement for the publication of copy which is the result of my own inspiration, I feel a little like a cartoon character of my youth, a modern day Mr Benn with a twist. Inspiration strikes, I make a phone call, send a couple of emails, and the door opens on an adventure that leads me away from home to undertake a journey into someone else's life.
I've written before of the Byzantine manner in which the inspiration for a feature idea can strike me. Sometimes, my natural sense of curiosity is pricked and I see a story in the everyday, as in the case of Bombay Sapphire Gin. Sometimes, my thirst for knowledge and lateral thinking combine and I seek further education in something I simply want to know more about, as in the case of a recent feature I produced about Martin Baker Ejector Seats. Occasionally, my attention is captured by something ostensibly straightforward that leads into something else altogether. As in the assignment that I've just returned from.
One sunday last summer, I was sat idly channel surfing when I happened upon TV coverage of ITV's Formula Woman. This was a one-make race series with 16 female drivers selected from over 10,000 applicants. Watching this, one lady in particular caught my eye - 25 year old Juliette Thurston.
Flying Officer Jules Thurston, RAF: Seated in the cockpit of her BAe Hawk T1
Juliette, as well as displaying a bit of talent behind the wheel of a car, is also one of the Royal Air Force's most talented fast-jet pilots. She's an officer and combat pilot instructor with 208 Squadron, based at RAF Valley in Holyhead at the north-western most tip of Wales from where she teaches the combat pilots of tomorrow how to use a fast jet as a weapons platform. Flying Hawk T1 aircraft, her and her colleagues introduce students to the finer points of low-level flying, a skill which leaves no margin for error and where just 150ft separates forward flight at a speed of 7 miles per minute from the ground and almost certain death - opportunities for pulling the handle to eject are non-existent in the time it takes for a crash to occur at low level.
Just before the end of October, armed with a commission, I drove the 300 miles to North Wales accompanied by my photographer Matt to meet with Juliette as a guest of 208 Squadron. The plan was to interview her, stay at the Officers' Mess overnight and drive back the following day. But this proved to be an assignment with a difference - with, er...'wings' on, if you like.
In essence, Jules felt that the best way for me to get a handle on what she does was to put myself in the role of one of her students. So after being issued with full flying kit and gifted with the other elements that constitute a fighter pilot's uniform, I wandered the base talking to people and soaking up as much information as I could. The following day was spent at the base's Hawk Synthetic Training Facility where I received instruction in the rudimentary aspects of low-level flying this agile jet aircraft in a £20m simulator encompassing a fully representative Hawk cockpit inside a huge projection dome with a 270degree field of view provided courtesy of a multi-channel high resolution projection display. Here, I successfully managed to take off, fly a low-level sortie through the valleys of North Wales' countryside, before loosing off a missile from the underwing pylons and watching it snake at high-speed to destroy a cottage in the Welsh hills (well, enough English holiday homes were set on fire by Welsh nationalists in the early 80s - it was the least I could do). I even managed to land without crashing.
Suitably impressed, she delivered the coup de grace.
"Let's arrange a date for you to come back and stay for a couple of days and you can do this for real. How's that grab you?"
Three years ago, providence shined upon me and placed me somewhat surprised and overawed in the rear seat of a Tornado F3 fighter jet as it flew me supersonically at low level over the North Sea. That was the realisation of a dream for a boy who had grown into a 33 year old frustrated combat pilot. I thought myself beyond privileged to have at least touched that dream and made it real. Now, I was being given the opportunity to do it again.
I drove back that evening hardly able to contain my enthusiasm. The following week was spent on holiday in the lake district. A non-stop week immediately after our return which saw me on assignments the length and breadth of the UK before returning on Monday back to RAF Valley to play at being a combat pilot. I eschewed driving this time, relaxing in the First Class compartment of an ultra-modern Pendolino train courtesy of Virgin Trains.
Kitting Up: Zipping myself into a pair of anti-G trousers at the Quartermaster's. The hose leading from my adbomen doesn't lead to a colostomy bag - it's the connector that carries air to the G-pants! (c) Chryogen
Arriving on Monday afternoon, I collected my flying kit, booked in at the Officers' Mess and enjoyed a few drinks in the bar with some of the squadron's pilots before being met by Jules and heading off base for a meal. On our drive back to base in her Audi S3, I got a first-hand demonstration of the skills that allowed Jules, along with 15 others to beat 10,000 women to a driving seat in the Formula Woman series - she's fast!
Early Tuesday morning, it was off to the see the Station Medical Officer for a thorough once-over before being passed as fit to fly. After that, I sat in on one of three weather briefings by a Met Office scientist at the squadron's HQ. This was followed by our flight brief at which all those involved in our sortie laid out and agreed upon the rules, procedures and operations to be followed for that specific op.
Me, Pensive: Listening intently at the pre-flight brief (c) Chryogen.
Our sortie was scheduled for a 12:10 departure as part of a 'battle pair' flying with our wing man as part of a tight formation. We were routed to transit across the Irish Sea and across to Barrow-in-Furness before breaking off and dropping to low level across the Lake District as a pair, flying through the valleys, across the lakes and over mountains, hugging the terrain.
Military aircrews fly at low level for a number of reasons, but principally, because hugging the terrain means flying below the operational effectiveness of enemy air defence systems - in short, flying below radar cover. In peacetime, training for this is conducted at any of the UK's 18 designated Low Flying Areas, at speeds of 450 knots and at heights ranging from 100-250ft.
At 11:00, I walked into the aircrew locker to where my flying kit waited. Dressing first in RAF-issue thermal cotton undergarments (required for its effectiveness against fire), next up was my flying suit and boots followed by the anti-G trousers ( increased G-Forces as produced by the tight, high speed manoeuvres fast jets are capable of causes our blood to gets heavier. Our hearts have evolved to pump blood round our bodies against a force of just 1 G and when this G-Force increases, our hearts are literally not strong enough to push our blood into our brains so instead, it pulls on the veins in our legs. As blood drains away from our brain it begins to shut down. We first lose our colour vision, then our field of view shrinks until, eventually, we lose consciousness. Anti-G trousers contain special bladders which fill with air and squeeze the legs, allowing you to remain conscious in higher gravity situations).
Over my top half, I wore an officers' flying jacket and over this, I strapped into my Life Survival Jacket or 'Mae West'. Finally, I collected my Mark 4A Flying Helmet and oxygen mask, together with a pair of super-thin capeskin leather aircrew gloves and met up with Jules to walk out to the Hawk and get strapped in.
Jules: Completing paperwork in the ops room prior to our sortie (c) Black Rat
The BAe Hawk is not merely a good-looking aircraft; It is agile and handles well, with a clean responsive 'feel' to the controls, and is regarded as great fun to fly - something that had been borne out by my sortie in the simulator. Its single Rolls Royce turbofan produces 5,200lb of thrust which, allied to a light weight of 18,390lbs fully laden is sufficient to push the aircraft to a maximum speed of 658mph, although it can achieve transonic speed in a 60 degree dive. Certainly, it's sufficiently agile and capable that the Hawk has been the mainstay of the RAF's illustrious Red Arrows display team since it replaced the ageing Folland Gnat in 1980.
To say I was looking forward to flying the aircraft, putting into practice the elements I'd learned in the sim would be an understatement although I have to confess, based on past experience of high-G, I was feeling a little apprehensive to say the least!
Photocall: Jules poses outside our Hawk before strapping in.
It had been a dark and overcast morning but almost as soon as Jules and I walked out to our jet, the clouds parted to reveal blue skies and bright sunshine. We walked ahead of the others to give us time to effect a photocall, and for me to get strapped into the Hawk's rear cockpit. It's a cramped affair, although the canopy, with it's tell-tale pattern shaped-charge running its length, is huge allowing exceptional all round visibility. I lowered myself into the Martin Baker Mk 10B Ejection Seat and secured myself via the 5-point harness, next attaching my leg restraint lines to the ejection seat (in the event of an ejection, these would pull my legs into the seat). On my left side, I attached the umbilical cord from the G-trousers to a plate that connected me to the aircraft, along with the oxygen hose and comms cable. Finally, I put on the helmet and oxygen mask, followed by my gloves. As the canopy was lowered and the order given to start engines, communication between Juliet and myself was via the intercom, the mics in our oxygen masks picking up the sound of our collective breathing, making it audible though the helmet's speakers. Within minutes, my mind would screen that element of sound out - but I made a mental note that if I needed to throw up later in the flight, Jules might appreciate my turning the mic off before doing so!
Jules kept up a constant dialogue as we taxied out alongside the other jets in our flight. On the order to do so, I removed the firing pins to arm first the explosive charge in the canopy, followed by that for the seat itself and placed them in their respective slots on the console ahead of me.
Taxiing Out: Jules (front) and I leave the pan for RAF Valley's main runway and a flight of fancy.
We were cleared for take off as soon as we turned onto Valley's main runway, the sparse, high level clouds affording us a view of deep blue and bright sunlight above. We held briefly on the threshold to the runway, the Hawk's wheel brakes straining against the 5,200lb of thrust developed by its single Rolls-Royce / Turbomeca "Adour 151" turbofan. After a slight pause, we surged forward in tandem with our wing man, 'rotating' to climb aggressively skywards, joined almost immediately afterwards by the other aircraft in our flight.
Wing Man: Climbing out over Anglesey in tandem with our wing man. (c) Black Rat
Transiting across the Irish Sea was uneventful and to be honest, there was little to differentiate it from any other flight I've ever undertaken at that stage other than the close proximity of our wing man and the other aircraft in the formation. I took the opportunity to fully appraise myself of my environment and make myself comfortable - a relative term given the layers I was wearing and the limited movement afforded me by the ejection harness (once strapped in, the harness is tightened to draw you down into the seat and keep you there - the benefits outweigh the cost, especially when flying inverted or undertaking the rapid, tight manoeuvres that fast jets are capable of). Despite the air conditioning blasting out cold air on full power, I was already sweating profusely, a combination of the layers I was wearing and the greenhouse effect of sunlight through the canopy.
Alien: Self-portrait, 7,000ft and 500 knots over the Irish Sea. Witness the reflection of the clouds in my visor - it might be bright and sunny where we are, but beneath the cloud, at ground level it's distinctly miserable. (c) Black Rat
Any discomfort I may have been feeling disappeared immediately we crossed over to the mainland peeling away from the formation with our wing man into a battle pair to drop down through several thousand feet somewhere over Barrow in Furness and level off at 250ft and 450 knots. Which is where the world changed for me.
Magic Carpet: Flying abeam of our wing man across a carpet of cloud covering the Irish Sea (c) Black Rat
Consider. Perception of speed is a relative thing and your perspective of it is governed by your frame of reference. Travelling supersonic in Concorde for example was meaningless in terms of how it looked from inside because there are no static objects at 60,000ft to act as a reference point. At 250ft above the ground however, you suddenly become very conscious of your surroundings, especially when hills and mountains rise up on either side of you from the valley floor!
Road to Nowhere: Flying at 90 degrees to the horizon, 200ft altitude, speed 450 knots through the Borrowdale Valley, Cumbria (c) Black Rat
Flying the length of Lake Windermere just above the treetops at 450 knots is an extraordinary experience but as nothing compared to the sudden, violent shift through 45 degrees that saw us flying at 90 degrees to the horizontal and hugging the valley floor through Ambleside. Low level flying is a dynamic affair built on shifting sands and requires immense concentration as the valley floor rises and falls beneath you, hills closing in as the valley changes direction, the odd mountain blocking your path and requiring a pull back on the stick and a sudden increase in power to negotiate. The world outside the canopy is a gorgeous miasma of golds, browns, ambers, greens, the Lake's Autumn colours swirling around in a kaleidoscope of shapes and hues.
Suddenly, Ullswater appears below us. At 7 miles long, it will take us less than a minute to travel its length at these speeds. To our right, a series of mountains 2,156ft high, to our left a range 3,116 towers above us. Our wingtips have just the lake's breadth between them and the scree of the mountains either side and the thought occurs to me, at this height, this speed, any major system failure, or a bird strike through the front canopy and it's good night forever - by the time I could react and pull the handle, we'd have ploughed nose first into a watery grave. It's a sobering thought.
North of Ullswater, we fly right over Deepdale and the cottage that I'd stayed at with my family just two weeks before. Then, I was watching the fast jets scream past at low level, just another of the many faces craned skywards to catch a glimpse of something so rarely seen in the south. Here and now, I look down through the canopy and see the awed faces of walkers staring up at us on the valley floor. On one mountain path to our right, I sight a group of walkers looking downwards upon us!
Break Right: Pulling a 4G turn as we cross the M6 just east of Penrith (c) Black Rat
Clearing Ullswater, we break right, heading low over the M6 motorway at Penrith before a hard 6G turn left and across toward Carlisle. We're low, breaking left, right, left again, rising, falling, our wing man alongside and slightly abeam. Low level across fields, over the dome of Center Parcs' Oasis Whinfell Forest. A flock of birds passes us on our flight level some 40 feet to our right and it occurs to me once again just how dangerous low-level flying is. This is what I love about flying - the freedom, go anywhere, do anything, move in three dimensions. It's a dynamic world above.
We break hard right, and I feel the anti-G system flood with air, constricting my legs. It tightens and I strain against it as my vision begins to fade, the sustained 5g making me fully five times my normal weight. Holding my camera at arms length is an impossible task and I sense my consciousness fading before suddenly we right ourselves and I'm back.
With Sellafield nuclear processing plant on our nose in the distance, we part company from our wing man and peel off alone. I'm feeling significantly less than 100% now, the constant G of low level turns and sudden manoeuvres exacting its toll on my equilibrium. I'm fighting waves of nausea, sweating profusely. I've a frame of reference for this and it isn't getting any easier!
Wast Water: Flying right wing down, 150ft above Wast Water with the screes disappering into the water on our right. Contrast this image with this one taken by me just two weeks ago whilst on the ground below our flight path. Little did I know then I'd be seeing the same vista from a different perspective. (c) Black Rat
Jules is talking to me over the intercom, keeping my mind focused in between to verbalising potential obstacles such as electricity pylons which, at our height, we're in danger of flying into. As we track south along the coast, I spy Wast Water, my favourite of all the lakes somewhere of to our left. I tell Jules and we break hard left and down. This is something else! We're over the water now, just 150 feet above its surface, the 1500ft high vertical wall of rock known as Wastwater Scree just to our right dropping straight into the lake's south-eastern shore. We fly alongside the point at which I stood just two weeks previous, gazing at the screes. Now, there are others there looking in wonder as we screech alongside them from nowhere and are gone just as quickly. Ahead and to my left, the Wasdale Head Inn and rising majestically on our nose, blocking our path, Scafell Pike - at 3,210ft, England's highest mountain.
Wasdale Head from 200ft: The Wasdale Head Inn is visible through the canopy as we pull up to clear Scafell Pike (c) Black Rat)
We climb vertically to crest it, breaking hard right across its summit and below us, I see Wrynose Pass snaking away into the distance. We've been flying for over an hour now and as we climb out over the Irish Sea to around 15,000ft, I sense I'm losing the battle with the waves of nausea that are enveloping me. However, it's not just a question of reaching for the conveniently placed sick bag secreted under the map pocket in my G-trousers - I fumble for the switch on the oxygen mask that turns the mic off and fiddle with the release clip that drops the oxygen mask away from my face before I can let nature take its course. Arse, it's beaten me again. So, that'll be no prospect of me making it as a fighter pilot, then.
That done, I feel a little better and besides, the views at this height divert my attention to illustrate perfectly just what I love most about aviation. Crossing the Irish Sea, we were pinned below an impenetrable layer of cloud, part of a frontal system moving down from the north. As we fly west, we break through into a different world of bright sunshine, azure, clear skies reaching as far as we can see. It's magical, a universe away from the dark, oppressive world below. Somewhere high above, we reach the edge of the frontal system and it's clear again to the sea below.
Frontal System: The leading edge of a weather front over the Irish Sea (just visible in the bottom right below the patchy cotton-wool clouds. Out of shot to our right are clear skies, with Anglesey off in the distance (c) Black Rat.
Jules comes over the intercom, "You have control" and I repeat the affirmation. Suddenly, my mind is focused, the last tendrils of the nausea of a few seconds ago brushed aside. "It's all yours", she adds. "Make her fly!".
I grasp the throttle in my left hand and ease it all the way forwards, the stick in my right holding us steady as I scan the instruments and watch our speed increase. "Aileron roll in 3...2...1" I warn Jules and flick the stick hard right. In under a second, we've rolled through 360 degrees. I immediately break left and feel the anti-G system squeezing against my legs and abdomen. We're at 90 degrees to the horizontal, max speed in the turn. I pull back on the stick to tighten the turn still further and feel the G increasing. 6G now, but I'm loving it - it's different when I'm at the controls. As a passenger, you're one step behind the events, constantly responding to what's happening, trying to anticipate and the G is a surprise - you don't know how intense, how sustained it will be. In control, you pre-empt, you know what's coming and its intoxicating, a high better than anything I've ever experienced. I thought flying the Tornado F3 was fun, but this is fast-jet flying at another level, the Hawk's legendary agility and benign character a joy. There's a joke within the fast jet community that a Tornado needs several counties to perform a tight turn - this does it on a sixpence.
I pull a loop, invert us and then push the stick hard forward putting us into a dive down towards the Irish Sea. With sufficient height and the right angle of attack, this would push us through the sound barrier but we have neither the altitude or fuel left to do this, so I level off and hand control back to Jules for the flight back to Valley. It's been fun but it can't last forever.
Alien II - the Sequel: One and a half hours into the sortie as we break for home (c) Black Rat.
The island of Anglesey is clearly visible below us almost in its entirety and I spot the runway off in the distance. Jules tells me she's going to take us in at a steep angle of attack to show me just what the Hawk is capable of and we dive down almost vertically onto the runway threshold, pulling up at just 75 ft for a go-around. Traffic in the pattern is busy - there are at least 4 other Hawks flying in our airspace, two ahead of us to land. We bank hard right, flying a lazy circle above Valley, awaiting clearance - which when it comes sees us straight in and down in a perfect landing. She's good, Jules. Really good.
Short Finals: Descending to land, just before the threshold to Valley's main runway (c) Black Rat.
As she shuts the engine down and raises the canopy, I let my mask drop away from my face gulping in mouthfuls of fresh sea air as I reinsert the pins to make safe the ejection system. My legs are a little unsteady as I descend the steps to terra firma, but my grin belies the way I feel. The nausea is there in the background, I'm drenched in perspiration and I feel tired - oh so tired, but elated.
Assignments come and go, and with each one to push the envelope of my imagination still further I think, "It can't get any better than this". But something comes along to up the ante, another dream fulfilled. I learn something, do something, change something and walk away with a different persective, a better understanding of the elements of other people's roles, their lives. I contacted Jules to conduct an interview and she unlocked the door to another of my dreams for me. And if people ask me what's so special, why is my job so different, what can I say? It's things, people like this. The money may be incidental compared to what I used to earn, and more often than not, the fallow times dwarf the profitable ones but you can't have everything in life and there has to be a compromise somehwere. Sod the money. This is what inspires me.
I've put together a short film which illustrates perfectly the sortie that I flew. It's a combination of in-cockpit video shot by myself and one of the guys on the squadron, together with some external footage shot by other squadron members on the ground. Five and a half minutes in length and it's in .wmv format at a touch over 9mb in size. Wanna know how it feels to fly low level at 450 knots with hills either side of you? Watch this:
A quiet weekend lies ahead for me, the perfect end to what's been a manic week. Arriving home from Wales late on tuesday night, I scarcely had time to unpack before an early morning trek across the capital to a meeting at Heathrow Airport on wednesday, followed by a lunch meeting yesterday with a PR girl to discuss a restaurant launch.
Enjoy your weekends - make 'em count, people. Normal service will be resumed here next week.
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LIVING WITH AN ICON
How does something ordinary assume the status of an icon? Look back along the road to your life and look at the things and people which have defied convention to rise head and shoulders above their peers; at a base level they may be no different from any others in their class, but something in their spirit marks them out, elevates them. They define the maxim that the sum of their parts is greater than the whole.
Most boys who grew up in England in the late seventies/early eighties are almost guaranteed to have had two posters on their bedroom walls as they passed into adolescence. One would have featured Debbie Harry at the stage in her career when she defined sex and wore no knickers on stage. The other was of something almost as sexy: a car from the stable of Enzo Ferrari.
For anyone that doesn't objectify a car as simply "something to get me from A to B", Ferraris occupy a special place in their automotive frame of reference. From the age of six, when I first began to develop the ability to identify every car in existence simply by its rear light cluster (I know, I know, it's a guy thing), I wanted a Ferrari. That desire has followed me into adulthood and every Ferrari I've been privileged to drive since has surpassed my expectations. The 348ts which I collected earlier this week has been no exception.
The 348 was launched to the world in 1989, the long awaited successor to the ageing 328 GTB. It represented a radical departure for Ferrari, a completely new car and engine as opposed to a reworking of an existing design. The 328 which it replaced was itself little more than a tweaked version of the venerable 308 GTS which debuted in 1980 and was made famous by Tom Selleck as Magnum PI in the TV show of the same name. With just 2,895 produced for the global market in the six years that the 348 in production, it's not a car you're likely to see too often.
The styling, penned by Italian design house Pininfarina became an instant classic. Drawing inspiration from its older and larger brother, the Testarossa, the 348 was fresher, more contemporary. Looking back, it's easy to see how the design cues lent themselves to the 348's eventual replacement, the F355 which was introduced in 1995.
The rear mounted 3,405cc V8 engine is one of Ferrari's best. Producing 300bhp at 7,200rpm, it delivers an astonishing 237 lb ft of torque at just 4,200rpm - more than enough to pull the car's 3,250lb weight on tickover over the speed humps that litter London's roads. In fact, in heavy London traffic, you can brake almost to a stop without needing to engage the predictably heavy clutch.
Sitting in the car, the offset pedals aren't a problem, although the close proximity of brake and accelerator will catch out the unwary, as well as those with oversized feet! Heel and toe starts are a breeze given their closeness, but for those unfamiliar with the marque's idiosynchracies, a dab of the brake pedal could herald an embarassing encounter with the car in front.
As with most Ferarris, letting the car idle on tickover for ten minutes or so from cold will pay dividends in the long term - by allowing the engine oil to warm to operating temperature, the highly tuned components will perform better and the stiff gears will mesh together easier. The engine settles to an encouraging burble just behind you on tickover. The gears are laid out in typical Ferrari style with a dog leg first. Slot the aluminium-capped gear stick hard left and down in the metal gate and it makes a satisfying metal against metal 'thunk' as it slides home. Blip the throttle, ease the stiff clutch out and first is good for almost 60 mph if you're heavy with the right foot. On the open road, floor it and the horizon is reeled in to you with predictable rapidity, 60mph passing in a shade over 5 seconds if you can get the power down through the 255 section rubber without spinning, and carry you on to 175mph.
Try it on barely wet tarmac as I did, and you'll find the back stepping out to meet the front effortlessly - 300bhp is an awful lot of power for those driven rear wheel to translate into forward motion and it's not for those of a nervous disposition on anything but ideal conditions. The gears are stiff and the selector needs a firm grasp to drive home through the gate. At speed through twisting country back roads, the extraordinarily low-slung profile of the car pays dividends, gluing the car to the tarmac. The Momo three spoke wheel provides outstanding feedback to your hands, the tyres transmitting information on every bump, glitch and cut in the road surface. Run over any errant wildlife and it's sensitive enough for you to be able to identify the recently deceased animals sex! Flighty at high speed in a straight line over anything but the most perfect tarmac, the car's light weight and readily available power really come into their own through the twists and turns which Ferraris are most at home in. With all the weight balanced perfectly over the driven wheels behind you, the steering needs no power to effect change of direction.
The brakes are sublime with no fade under heavy use and are fearsomely powerful, hauling the car to a stop from 60 mph in just 128ft. Predictably, driving this car, like any but the most recent of Ferraris is something of a chore on British roads. Ignroing the obvious stares of other motorists that accompany a drive in any car bearing the marque of the prancing pony, the 348 requires immense concentration - speed humps, width restrictions and narrow streets all conspiring to take their toll on a car designed for the track and make progress frustratingly slow and difficult. You can forgive it its idiosynchracies though, such is the promise of reward it harbours within its strange alchemy. You can feel touches of the brilliance that demarcates every great car Ferrari has produced though, even whilst the engineering compromises that make the ride so stiff and unyeilding on the road frustrate your progress. It's all worth it just for that moment when the road ahead clears and you can snick down through the metallic gate to third, floor the loud pedal and just enjoy the howl as the engine sucks in air through intakes and reels in the horizon, leaving everything in your rear view mirror. Call on it in its proper environment and it performs with alacrity - this is car that is made to be at its best when being driven at a constant 9/10ths.
If you've got the £35,000 or so a decent low mileage 348 will relieve you of, you can expect to fork out another £4,000 a year in servicing and running costs if you use it the way its makers intended. At this level, there's no such thing as 'economic' sense. After all, Ferraris are cars you buy with your heart, not your head. For all its impracticality, I'm loathe to hand this one back - there's something of the Ferrari spirit with every car to emerge from the factory gates in Modena and you're always aware that you're driving something that little bit special. Besides, it's Italian - you wouldn't expect it to be perfect, would you?
I've uploaded a short video of the car (just 2.08mb) in .wmv format to my server which was shot with my XDA. If you've got decent speakers on your PC, crank them up for an aural symphony of Ferrari's prancing ponies conducted by my right foot. The film is Here (Right Click, Save Target As).
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UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL: RAE BAKER
What a difference a year makes. Twelve months ago today we saw the culmination of a long-running heatwave which in ffice:smarttags" />London saw temperatures climb to a record breaking 101degF. As of this morning, we were in the midst of a second bout of flooding from torrential rains more readily identifiable with tropical monsoons, despite the temperature being 77degF - and all that following Saturday's hottest temperature this year, and Sunday night's hottest night time temperature in history - a whopping 77 deg at 2:00am, hotter than the day time climate in Morocco. ffice ffice" />
My own life's changed a bit since then too. This time last year, I was editing a London based magazine aimed at motorcylists and one of its regular features was an interview each month with a celebrity who happened to be a biker. It was a simple equation - I had pages to fill, and they - the actors and actresses, singers, TV presenters and the like - all had something to push and needed the coverage that my pages could give them. Celebrity, without constant exposure to publicity produces an effect not dissimilar to that which occurs when a fish is removed from water. Quite simply, without the air of exposure through print media, celebrity withers, and dies.
So it was that the phone rang off the hook with a steady stream of agents offering me their charges for interviews, tie-ins, launches - anything to garner coverage for them. I pride myself on being posessed of an interterview technique that cuts through the veneer that celebs present to the world to reveal the person underneath and I was touched when several interviewees offered me praise for the manner in which I'd conducted the interviews, or the questions I'd asked. From those for whom interviews with newspaper and magazine hacks were part of the job, it felt like praise indeed to be told afterwards that I'd asked questions that they'd never been asked before.
Perhaps it helped that 'celebrity' doesn't interest me. It neither fazes me, nor impresses me - why should it? I'm inspired by people - what defines their personality, what motivates them, drives them. The minutiae of their lives. I've said it before, but it bears repetition - the average celeb's life is of less interest than that of any number of bloggers. It's not their celeb status that makes them interesting (or not), rather the person that lives underneath that public face - who are they?
It's for the same reason that I've never 'done a Biggins' and turned up to the opening of an envelope. Specifically, I've avoided the premieres, launches and celeb parties where possible for one very simple reason: they're as dull as fuck. Figure it, right. Agents tell their charges, "You have to go to this party honey. All the editors, PRs and TV company people are gonna be there, and we have to get you seen". None of the PRs, TV company people and editors want to be there either - there's only so much free Champagne and canapes you can quaff, and the novelty soon wears off. The downside is the unwritten rule that means that nobody says anything meaningful to anybody.
Conversational gambits at celeb parties never get further than "So, how are you", occasionally broaching such virgin territory as "What project are you working on now, then?" It's all anodyne, meaningless drivel, the conversational equivalent of lift music. Consequently, many celebs live in this rarefied climate whereby they don't actually know anyone. Oh, they talk to hundreds of people, and see the same faces, sure. But they don't talk about anything meaningful, or wilfully disclose anything personal or revealing because they want this paradoxical existence of fame without the world knowing about their real lives. It's a shallow and lonely existence.
Every now and then, though, you meet someone who bucks the trend, somebody who confounds the expectation of diva-ish behaviour. Ewan McGregor is a good example - Hollywood 'A' list he might be, but at heart, he's a regular guy with a pretty normal life away from the cameras. He's centred, feet on the ground and doesn't buy into the idea that you need an entourage of at least 60 people, including a personal carpenter, whenever he leaves home. With Ewan, WYSIWYG.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, an above average number of the celebs that I interviewed for the magazine emulated Ewan in this regard. It never occurred to them to do the whole flash celeb thing...but then, that's the nature of biking. It transcends social strata, industry and class, animating its proponents in conversation. You can't define a biker anymore - not like in the old days, greasy, Hell's Angel's types who live on the edge of society and law. Biking now is an invisible, gossamer thin thread that binds together couriers with barristers, links actresses and builders, retired army majors with barmaids. It's a classless pastime, a great equaliser in that it engenders passion among those who ride. Put two strangers together in a social situation, and the minute they discover the person they've been introduces to is a biker, their language changes. They engage, talk passionately about the adrenaline, the thrill, the sheer fun of riding. They cease to be whatever they are in regular society - to each other, they share a bond through the simple fact that they both ride.
But I digress. The interviews themselves weren't exactly hard work - lunch was always complimentary, courtesy of whichever restaurant put themselves up as the venue. A glass or two of Champagne when the guest arrives to put them at ease, and then an agreeable lunch with wine and easy conversation - after all, people generally like to talk about themselves. All I had to do was steer the conversation and be a good listener. I don't do question and answer interviews, preferring to let the ebb and flow of normal conversation define the course of the feature. There are countless ways to get the answers to the questions you want to ask without actually asking them outright.
I met Rae Baker in July last year. At the time, she was playing one of ITV's The Bill's most high profile characters, DC Juliet Becker and she was in the middle of the show's most prominent storyline. The producers had other plans in store for her though as they unveiled more of her character and wanted to get the word out to promote the forthcoming episodes. As it transpired, she was a biker - not just in the TV series, but in real life, so I agreed to meet her for lunch. What follows is the interview as it appeared.
RAE BAKER: THE SUN HILL SOPRANO
Rae’s late. There’s ‘fashionably’ late, but that passed over 10 minutes ago; 20 minutes later and my mobile rings – it’s her. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I’ve been riding around for ages and I can’t find a motorcycle bay with space to park. I’ll be with you as soon as possible”. By a strange irony, I came into London by train and arrived early - she’s on her bike and she’s late. Still, there are worse places to be sat waiting for a beautiful woman than Terrence Conran’s latest London eaterie, the Grand Café in London’s Royal Exchange.
It gives me a chance to drink in the surroundings of the Grade 1 listed building which dates back to 1565 when Thomas Gresham began work on the City of London’s first bourse. Despite being destroyed by fire and rebuilt twice, the Royal Exchange has always been a vibrant centre of commerce and in 2001, when the London International Financial Futures Exchange vacated the building, it was once again sympathetically remodelled to become the home of some of the world’s finest fashion retailers.
Conran’s Grand Café and Bar takes its inspiration from the elegant early twentieth century Viennese coffee houses and Harry’s Bar in Venice. The focal point of the former trading floor is a curvaceous polished pewter bar with a dramatic high-level central display surrounded by the dining area. Mickael Weiss, head chef of Conran’s nearby Coq d’Argent, oversees the all day café menu, which offers a selection of oysters, cold seafood dishes, salads, sandwiches, soups, charcuterie, terrines, and patisserie. Oh, and the drinks look pretty good too - an extensive wine list and any number of cocktails should you so desire.
On the hottest day of the year though, alcohol is off limits for me. With the mercury nudging 30degC and oppressive humidity of 66%, every movement is an effort and thirst is ever-present. By the time Rae arrives, I’ve chilled nicely, aided by a bottle of Hildon sourced water. Poor Rae though is anything but cool.
“Bloody Ken Livingstone and his congestion charge”, she says. “I was so hoping it would fail. Instead, all the bloody motorcycle bays are full and there’s just nowhere to park.” She’s profusely apologetic, mopping perspiration constantly as her body reacts to the combination of a set of Dianese leathers, a journey through London sat astride a Honda XVT 1800 and an ambient temperature in the nineties. Chuck in the stress of running late and the oppressive humidity and nobody’s gonna stay cool. “And as for buses, the bloody things are a menace, it’s about time they scrapped them. They take up the space of two cars and they’re always empty!”
“Waitress, a drink for the lady, please!” Rae is a little hot under her Dianese collar.
If you’re one of the 8.6m regular viewers to ITV’s ‘The Bill’, Rae will need no introduction. She joined the long running series in February, appearing on screen in June as DC Juliet Becker. “Juliet is a real action woman, a bit of a Lara Croft. She has quite a lot of bike chases – and there are quite a few people of both sexes who take her fancy. She likes shopping on both sides of the road. She gets involved with both a man and a woman in CID in the weeks to come. I think she may turn into a good-time girl but she isn't a bitch and everyone likes her. It's a liberating part to play and a natural progression from the gay and lesbian characters that have been in The Bill.”
Ah, that’ll be the much-hyped kiss scene in which Rae’s bi-sexual character Juliet introduces bi-curious DS Debbie McAllister to the joys of sapphic pleasure, then. Fancy that, another explosive storyline on The Bill. Can there be anybody left at Sun Hill who hasn’t been shot, stabbed, murdered, raped or abused? And that’s just at the police station.
Playing a bisexual cop in The Bill isn't the accomplished 28 year old actress’ most unusual role, however. “Last year I was a transsexual man in the stage play Skin Deep. It was a very disturbing part as I came off stage every night battered and bruised. It was a tough challenge but it did give me a kind of insight into my character Juliet Becker's bisexuality — it's an important subject which is not really talked about that much.”
Much as Jeremy Sheffield, who I interviewed last month, appears a little out of place in a popular soap like Holby City, Rae’s pedigree sets her apart too. I can’t help thinking that her character in The Bill is hardly a reach for her, not the ‘meatiest’ of roles. Her antecedents are impressive, with vocal skills developed through a private tutor, who coached her in opera. Her soprano singing helped her gain several leads with the National Youth Music Theatre and helped her win a place at the renowned Central School of Speech and Drama where she spent three years courtesy of Theatre Legend Cameron McIntosh.
In one of those moments which even hindsight can’t diminish, Rae showed up to audition for a bursary only to find out that she’d missed the deadline. Cameron McIntosh happened to be passing through at the precise moment Rae was on stage and was so enraptured by her performance that he personally guaranteed to underwrite all her costs at the school. He even offered her a part in Les Miserables which Rea had to turn down on graduating as she had secured lead roles in both Guys & Dolls and A Winter's Tale at the Royal National Theatre, and landed her first TV appearance in Jonathan Creek.
No stranger to hard work, she’s been gainfully employed in acting since leaving drama school in 1995. She was originally invited to screen test for the part of ditzy Honey Harman in The Bill in July 2002 but it wasn’t what she wanted. She must have left an impression on the producers though because at her call-back audition, she was asked what sort of role she wanted. Juliet’s character was written especially for her and the fact that she’s a biker is down to Rae.
She’s Sun Hill's first biker cop since the program began in 1984 and her character rides a Honda Shadow, which is great for Rae who owns a Yamaha Virago and a recently acquired Honda VTX1800. She's been riding since she was 16 and in fact only passed her driving test a few years ago. Bikes are her first love.
It’s her personality rather than her undeniably striking looks that is Rae’s most noticeable trait. Sure, she has cheekbones you could clean your nails with and a Home Counties accent, terrific stature (she’s 5’11”) allied to impossibly long legs, but she’s not self-obsessed. Her articulacy and intelligence, her success are the result |
