Ethiopian Airlines selection procedure, from the horses mouth!

ETHIOPIAN AIRLINES SELECTION PROCESS.

ARRIVAL AND DAY 1

From the horse’s mouth, a veteran of many an interview/selection process, from Europe to Asia to Africa and many points in between. Thirty years in aviation and 17,000 hours as an airline pilot, allows me to speak with some authority on my analysis of the Ethiopian Airlines selection procedures.

Once a mutually beneficial date has been arranged by your agency through the Ethiopian Airlines Director of Recruitment and Placement Mr Mesay Shiferaw, your point of contact in Addis Ababa; then an E-ticket will be issued for your travel in business class on an Ethiopian Airlines flight from your nearest airport which they serve. Business class lounge access is provided where available.

On arrival at Addis Ababa in the immigration hall can be found a bank where you can change foreign currency for the local currency, the Ethiopian Birr. I changed £40 and probably only spent £5 worth of local currency. Following the most cursory of immigration procedures, collection of checked in luggage is hassle free, and on exiting the arrivals hall, you’ll be met by a member of the Riviera Hotel’s staff, who speaks excellent English and liaises between the hotel, Ethiopian Airlines and yourself.

The drive in the hotel’s shuttle bus, of which you have sole use it seems, takes about 15 minutes along a highway festooned with donkeys, goats and the everyday African folk who live along the kerb. On arrival at the hotel, a tip of $1 was gratefully received by my driver, and check in procedures took just a couple of minutes. Your driver will advise you of your itinerary for the next day.

The hotel room is reached by a serviceable lift, though I am not sure of its backup power source during the many frequent power outages. Each floor has its own Wi-Fi routers, and I had no problem receiving a wireless signal, though compared to western speeds it was very slow, however it was adequate enough for Skype to function. The rooms are of a decent size with a comfortable double bed, television with several western news and movie channels, fridge and separate sitting area. The bathroom fittings are tired but clean and a large bath with plenty of hot water available.

On the hotel’s ground floor is a bar selling bottled water, western and local beers, approximately £1 for a decent sized bottle of their local beer. Widescreen TV seemed to be constantly showing live Premier League football and International cricket matches. Although you can smoke in the bar, almost none of the local patrons did. The smallish but clean restaurant serves a buffet lunch of salads, rice and several meat dishes. In the evening the dinner buffet is complemented by an a-la-carte menu with several choices of western food, including pastas and pizzas. If you choose to have bottled water or soft drinks then there is nothing to pay. Ethiopian Airlines pays for all meals and soft drinks, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Hence why I spent almost nothing, however, it is suggested to go easy at dinner and to skip the following breakfast as your first challenge the next day is a comprehensive medical.

DAY 2

The shuttle bus was waiting for me at 0745 to take me to the Ethiopian Airlines Headquarters for the 15 minute drive to where the medical centre, simulator complex and administrative offices are all located each within walking distance of each other.

You are directed to a small nurses/secretarial station in the reception area, where several forms are to be filled in on basic medical history and you are told to take these when completed to the lab, which is a small room located just off of the reception area. Here you give a urine sample and two phials of blood are taken from syringes which come straight out of sealed packaging.

Next port of call was a chest x-ray followed by an ECG which seems to be temperature sensitive, as the nurse covered me in a blanket as she said the readings are better if you’re warmer, a new concept to me. Now came the hearing test in a ‘not quite’ sound proof room which I suspect was not functioning correctly as I am high tone deaf, yet apparently I didn’t miss a note. The eyesight check was as you would expect and I wear bi-focal glasses which was perfectly fine for them.

The scales are not very accurate which weigh you, if you’re not happy, repeat; I lost three kilos on my second weighing! Your blood pressure is measured in the conventional manner and now you are finished, almost.

On cue my driver was there to take me into Addis Ababa where I was escorted to the company tailor’s where I was measured for my uniform back to the hotel for two hours where I could relax and have lunch, before meeting the doctor for a chat about the medical results.

With lunch completed you return to the airline’s medical centre, the interview with the doctor is very straight forward and light hearted. You are given an Ethiopian Class 1 medical certificate and sent back to the reception area.

Here you are met by a very charming lady, Meseret Yesera who is Mesay Shiferaw’s deputy in the recruitment section. I was advised that I would now have my simulator assessment and my interview tomorrow morning. She led me through the simulator centre’s minimal security and introduced me to an elderly gentleman who was my check pilot. He led me into a standard type briefing office and here I met my stand in co-pilot. After a brief, yet extremely friendly and laid back chit chat about my flying history my briefing started. We would start in Djibouti, though sometimes Addis Ababa is used, and performance was calculated by the co-pilot by using the Boeing laptop, one of which is issued to all pilots.

On arrival at the aircraft I found it was unpowered, all pre-flight scans and switch settings were to be completed by the co-pilot. The ATIS was giving weather below CAT 1 minimums and my declaring a take-off alternate appeared to confuse proceedings, so I decided to keep it simple.

Using my S.O.Ps we completed all normal checklists and briefings and started the engines where there were no faults programmed. After a short taxi out we were repositioned at the end of R/W27 for a simple departure to the south west. LNAV and VNAV are available as is the flight director, autopilot and auto-throttle. A normal take-off with a climb to 8,000 feet and then a series of stalls in the clean and landing configuration, though I found that I wasn’t really sure what was wanted of me by my check pilot, but this didn’t prove to be much of an issue. Next came two 45’ steep turns and radar vectors for a normal ILS approach and landing, with a cloud base just above minimums on R/W27 at Djibouti again.

With no change to the weather we took off again and an engine failed at V1, having identified that it was just an engine run down we climbed out and told to maintain runway heading. I had terrain selected on my ND and could see that high ground was directly on our flight path and requested a left turn away from this threat, which was duly granted. With the relevant checklists completed we were radar vectored back for an ILS approach onto R/W 27, the weather was broadcast as being on our CAT 1 limits. On base leg the autopilot ‘failed’ and a manual approach and missed approach following the standard missed approach profile was completed. We were now repositioned to a ten mile final in CAVOK conditions and a 10 knot crosswind for a one engine inoperative ILS approach (flight director still available) and landing, taxiing off the runway the detail was finished.

No debrief, just an exchange of pleasantries. I suppose we were in the simulator for almost an hour, and it was a very gentle and friendly session with two really nice people.

I was met back at the security desk by Meseret Yesera who had already called the hotel shuttle bus to take me back to the hotel, my day was finished and I was told that my interview would be at 1000 the following morning.

 

DAY 3

On arrival at the administration office I met Mesay Shiferaw who just wanted to know when I could start. They ideally like you to stay on after screening to complete their training process; however this did not fit into my schedule.

Meseret took me to the Chief Pilot’s office and after introductions the interview started. My licence was thoroughly examined as were my log books, this took almost ten minutes and was conducted in silence. Next came a detailed cross examination of my career to date; I have to say it was a rather unpleasant affair, mainly due to the Chief Pilot’s interview technique though this could also be partly due to the language problem. I found that after giving an answer to all the standard interview questions I would be asked to expand on my answer and then expand again, often to the point where I had nothing further to add, which I found rather exasperating. Several of the questions would be asked two or three times which I found quite odd and these were taken off of a sheet of paper on the Chief Pilot’s desk.

However, after an hour and a quarter, the interview was brought to a close and I was again asked when I could start. I personally think that it was a combination of poor interview technique and language difficulties which made the interview an unpleasant affair, because the Chief Pilot afterwards came across as a reasonably amenable gentleman.

DEPARTURE

Having spent the remainder of the day back at the hotel, it was time to leave for the seven hour return flight to London. I allowed myself a 15 minute transit to the airport and an arrival there of two hours prior to departure which turned out to be sufficient. Very easy check in was followed by immigration, make sure you complete the simple departure form (a plentiful supply can be found easily in the departure hall) prior to reaching the immigration desk. Travelling in business class meant that you can use the Fast Track line. From entering the terminal to walking into the duty free hall took a maximum of twenty minutes. The business class lounge can be easily found in the departure hall, is comfortable with a good selection of drinks and a few snacks, plus free Wi-Fi.

 

All in all the three days ran like clockwork. Everybody I met was friendly, courteous and helpful. I spent about £5 on bottled beer and water, and £1 on having a shirt laundered and ironed. Everything else was paid for by Ethiopian Airlines.

So Ethiopia and Addis Ababa might sound like the back of beyond or the end of the earth. But if you want a contract which allows you to commute in business class on an excellent route network; a country where the cost of living means that you can comfortably live within your accommodation package and not touch your tax free salary or per diems. Fly modern well equipped aircraft with naturally friendly colleagues, then you could do far worse, in my opinion.

MY OPINION FROM MY OWN PERSONAL EXPERIENCES….OTHER OPINIONS MAY AND WILL DIFFER…

BA38 FROM THE INSIDE.

The following is a brief feedback from one of my family members who was sitting in First Class on BA38, when the Boeing 777 crashed on landing at London's Heathrow airport after suffering a double engine failure.

I too have experienced a double engine failure but on a far less complicated aircraft, a PA31, but more on that event later.

The following is a link to a video of the ATC transcript, which is very interesting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=TJeEl0-1sjM

Very briefly, and from the horse's mouth.........

The flight appeared totally normal, the touchdown seemed a lot firmer than normal. There was no panic even after the aircraft came to a standstill. There was no evacuation initially ordered over the Public Address system. The cabincrew opened the forward doors and deployed the slides. Still no panic, passengers stood up in the First Class compartment and started to retrieve their belongings from the overhead bins before deplaning/evacuating. He stated that prior to leaving the aircraft he never heard anything from the pilots.
It was then that the cabin crew started the evacuation in earnest. He went down the slide and the only BA cabin crew member was just standing at the end of the slide but in tears. He put his arm around her to try and console her. Shortly afterwards the fire service arrived and he was led away, leaving the distressed cabincrew member behind.
It took several hours before he was able to leave the airport as the British Airways groundstaff were unprepared for such a situation.
He subsequently suffered back problems from the vertical component of the impact, bills which BA paid, they also paid for him and three family members to travel club class and pay for the hotels on any British Airways holiday around the world....a nice gesture in my opinion.

I mentioned the above a year later when doing Safety and Emergency Procedures training at British Airways Cranebank training centre. The instructor vehemently stated that the above was totally untrue and that the above never happened. I insisted that this was a true and factual statement and I was again rebuked...............Ostriches?!!!

A FLEDGLING PILOT FLEEING THE NEST........PART TWO.

I suppose you found the travel bug, and desire to be a pilot from bumming around Goa with your school buddies or trekking around Nicaragua whilst on a gap year? 

A sarcastic question I know, but my straight faced reply would be made as nonchalantly as possible, “No time for a gap year, I went straight to Oxford,” and with a faraway look in my eyes add for good measure, “Used to love punting with Billy, Simon and Oliver followed by a liquid lunch on the banks of the Isis!” 

Of course, anyone who knew me well would spot the obvious holes in that pompous, tongue in cheek statement except for the liquid lunch part!   

So it was on a sunny August afternoon and with my parents’ good grace, I was on my way. The summer after my stunning ‘A’ level results promised the start of a new chapter in my life and I was off to begin my fabulous adventure. 

The drive to Oxford from my parents’ home in Surrey took me along the recently opened M25 and my first experience of being alone in a traffic jam that had no reason for being. Whilst waiting patiently for my turn to use the accelerator feature of my car, almost an unnecessary option on this stretch of road, I watched in awe as plane after plane roared above my head, scrambling to become airborne from one of London Heathrow’s westerly runways.  

So with no driving to concentrate on, I found myself daydreaming. Back then, in-car entertainment was limited to a cassette deck with a voracious appetite for the tapes themselves or a row with your passengers. The multi tasking required to text on mobile phones whilst delving under your seat for your latest CD and packet of wine gums was still only in the imagination of science fiction writers and travelling salesmen. At that moment I was probably one of only a handful of motorists not cursing and chain smoking, but actually enjoying the view, fantasizing that I was the pilot in the cockpit of one of those planes. 

Driving for another hour and heading further west, I passed Windsor Castle on my left, crossed over the Thames at the historic town of Henley before joining up with the motorway system again and the last part of my journey. Up to now I had been immersed in my own little world, seeing sights that were all new to me. I realised that I was not just leaving my old life behind at a steady seventy miles per hour, but more importantly I was heading into my new life at the same speed. Traversing the crest of the hill through the deep cutting near the village of Turville and looking down as the County of Oxfordshire revealed itself in what appeared to be its entirety, I realised the actual reason for my journey. My sense of excitement heightened as I realised the enormity of what lay ahead - I was to become a pilot and a sense of wonder returned. Prior to this moment the thoughts and reasons for why I was making this journey had been pushed towards the periphery of my subconscious. I felt incredibly lucky and considered that now would be the time that maybe I should pinch myself! 

Leaving the motorway several miles to the south of Oxford, its continuation to the colourful city of Birmingham still a figment in the eye of some yet to be promoted spotty town planner, I followed the sign posts through the urban villages on the outskirts of the city of Oxford, Summertown and Kidlington, finally crossing the hump backed bridge over the Oxford canal which led to the perimeter road around the college’s airfield.  

You probably would not be surprised to learn that the college was not part of ‘Oxbridge’, the world famous Oxford and Cambridge universities. Instead, it was a residential flying school, O.A.T.S. or, to give its full name, Oxford Air Training School. Their advertising could, in my opinion, have honestly boasted, ‘probably the best flying school in the world!’ The airfield was tucked away between the small Oxfordshire villages of Kidlington, Summertown and Woodstock, the nearest neighbour of any standing residing at Blenheim Palace. The location truly made for a delightful setting, chocolate box villages, olde-world pubs and once back in Summertown, girls; girls on bikes, girls on buses and some girls just walking. I had never seen so many girls and from so many different countries - yes, a kid in a sweet shop with a gold credit card would be an apt description of how I felt!  

Just over two hours since leaving home, I arrived at the entrance to what would be my new residence for the next year. I felt like getting out and kissing my car in the manner of a visiting Pope, but decided that it was probably not the first impression I would want of me should I be spotted. I was unprepared for what I imagined lay ahead and with the minimum amount of worldly goods, everything I had which I felt that I would need could be found wedged into the boot of this ‘super car’ of mine, a pensioner’s Volkswagen Derby.  

There could be found a suitcase of my smartest clothes, a cardboard box full of dried food, assorted tins and a box of tea bags which would have been sufficient for an army of builders, along with what my Mum obviously deemed to be necessary as survival rations for an expedition outside the protected confines of the M25. I also had the princely sum of twenty pounds in my pocket and a look on my face of impending panic and excitement. To the casual observer it probably looked as if I had had a stroke! 

I slowly turned off the main road, stopped the car and wound down my window to admire the billboard sized black and orange O.A.T.S. signs which flanked the entrance. The signs, coupled with the serious looking security gate and the sound of a jet engine whining close by, brought a quick slice of reality back to my situation. I had arrived. I could only wonder as to what would lie in store for me, what I could expect, what would be required of me and who my new friends would be. All would be swiftly revealed no doubt. 

“You can’t park there young man!”  A voice bellowed from behind me.  

Startled, I wound down the window, a concept alien to anyone under the age of thirty and peered backwards to see an immaculately dressed security officer. It was immediately obvious from his appearance that this guy took his job way too seriously, except for the soldiers participating in the changing of the guard, you would have been hard pressed to find any other man in uniform smarter and those soldiers, they were trying to impress the Queen. No-one should be that immaculate outside of royal circles. He looked as if he had just come from an audition for ‘Dad’s Army’ but had not won the part as he had been wearing too many medals! His dark blue uniform decked with two rows of military ribbons creased to within an inch of its life, announced a proud man. A man I just knew I was going to have trouble with and who I would later find out had a phobia about ducks! 

I was directed to pull forward 3.4 yards and marshalled to a stop with the precision of a Swiss border guard. I introduced myself as Mr. Carter, which sounded strangely alien to me. Up until now there had been no Mister, only Carter, “Come here Carter! It was you wasn’t it Carter?”  

I added that I was a new student, chucked in a ‘Sir’ or two which I found usually did the trick, but on this occasion softened him not a jot. After a couple of moments whilst I was being sized up, I was duly rewarded with directions towards the administration office and it was clear from the look he gave me that he considered me as yet another nuisance that he would need to deal with! Unbeknown to each of us, he would be the bane of my life and those of my friends and, in turn, we would be his for the next twelve months. A fair arrangement some would agree!  

“You’re the third one today. Follow the road to the end, then park.” 

Not too complicated I thought. Failing to return the salute, I released the hand brake and stalled making a mental note to use the clutch pedal in future! I kangarooed a couple of times but I did not care, I was in. 

Having taken control of the car, I weaved my way at a leisurely ten miles per hour along the narrow road, soaking up the atmosphere of the moment and taking in my surroundings. I slowly drove past the school’s haphazardly scattered buildings, my head moving in a slow motion imitation of a Wimbledon umpire who was trying to follow a particularly long rally.  

I was trying to decide what my first impressions were and I was starting to become a little concerned. From what I could gather, the buildings seemed to be spread over most of the airport’s eastern side comprising the architectural splendours of both military and penal design from the last fifty years. There were single storey classroom blocks with windows in need of painting. Large out of proportion lecture halls with doors you could drive a tank through, halls of residence designed with a POW theme in mind and sign posts pointing towards a restaurant that I did not hold out great hopes for.  

Most importantly to me, I could see large hangars holding a promise of aircraft within and the reason why I was here. More disturbingly, I noticed that all of the uniform bedecked students were obviously not of this country; it appeared that I had come across a small part of England devoid of the English. It would not be until much later that I would find out the location of the most important building, the bar and the location of a fellow student, a guy called Oliver who would become my new best friend. 

After half a mile of zigzagging along, I came to the end of the road as had been so accurately pointed out in the bellowed directions from earlier and found a parking space outside the administration office. Locking my car, I turned around and studied the scene ahead of me.  

Across the other side of the car park and beyond a small grassy area were rows of precisely parked training aircraft, all with the white, yellow and orange CSE Oxford logos adorned on their fuselages.  

 

Now CSE Aviation was part of the Guinness group, but for us students it would be forever known as ‘Cash Swiftly Extracted’ which my Dad later agreed as being very apt! It was beyond these stationary aircraft where the real action was taking place, for every couple of minutes another aircraft would land or take-off, some wobbling, taking flight like an immature duckling whilst others were controlled with what appeared a practised ease. I had no illusions, even with my grand total of twenty seven flying hours under my belt I knew I was on the duck side of the scale. 

“Alan Carter?”  

A question asked in the same tone of voice as if enquiring after Dr. Livingstone but much softer, brought me back to reality and a quick realisation that I had no need to be nervous of my situation any more. Turning back towards the offices and the source of this enquiry I was met by the sight of a smartly dressed woman whose attitude and demeanour immediately put me at ease, but that would not last. She turned out to be the senior administration secretary; known simply as Sally and the lady to whom I should turn to if I had any problems. 

“Yes, I’m Alan Carter, one of your new boys and I have no idea where I should be!” I managed to stammer out. 

“Well, you’re starting in the right place. How about I give you a quick tour, show you where you need to go tomorrow for your induction and then leave you in Matron’s capable hands! You’ll be staying in Langford Lodge.” 

I assumed that Sally had been warned of my imminent arrival by her officious colleague at the airfield’s entrance, well that added to the fact that I did stand out, not being in the dark blue uniform suit of the other students and much pastier in appearance!  Matron?  I was conjuring up thoughts of ‘Carry On’ films and strict public schools, certainly not flying schools! 

My new residence, Langford Lodge, conjured up pictures in my mind of quite a pleasant establishment, maybe a country house style of residence I thought. Wrong! 

My five minute tour complete, I learned very little except that Lord Waterford had a Learjet unlike Lord Chelsea, and during the previous week whilst Waterford’s jet was catching up Chelsea’s jet on coming into land, it was suggested that the Englishman break off. The immortal line, ‘An English Lord will never give way to an Irish Lord!’ was broadcast over the radio. Now Sally just threw this into conversation. Was it just a throw away anecdote to put me at ease or maybe she thought I was a trouble making Lord? Feeling a little concerned over my first impressions maybe now was a good time to form an escape committee and start on Tom, Dick and Harry!  

Tour complete and back to the car, waving good bye to the slightly eccentric Sally, I followed the brief directions which she had given and found myself a couple of minutes later in a car park full of vehicles apparently held together by rust and prayers. More disturbingly than the lack of these cars resale value was the fact that I was now in front of one of the POW style barrack blocks which I had passed earlier. 

Standing at the entrance to this building was a stick thin woman in the most ridiculous flowery dress, definitely no Hattie Jacques! Alongside her and ramrod straight stood her husband, the security guard from the entrance. Worse news was to come! I found out that they both lived in an annexe attached to my halls of residence and both patrolled the building with an unnerving and quite worrying passion. Over the next few months she would reveal herself as simply being the mother hen type, which I suppose is what we lads needed initially.  

With the briefest of introductions completed I was led inside, though I had the feeling that her husband, such was his demeanour, would rather have frog marched me in and up the stairs to my room. The once red and now dark maroon carpet was threadbare at best, the walls pot marked and the white paint chipped.  

My old school back in Croydon was in better condition than this and my enthusiasm was taking a big hit. Now I have to admit that I was probably feeling slightly homesick, well at least for the small luxuries I had taken for granted such as wallpaper and carpet that had not been manufactured with a life on a British Rail carriage in mind! Further along the passageway we passed several dusky looking guys, all of whom were in a hurry not to say hello, looking straight past me as if I was of no consequence; another friendly welcome! Then we reached number 36 and Matron pointed out that this would be mine, conveniently located as it was opposite the toilet and bathroom, home to a thousand different smells and no doubt germs!  

Scanning up and down, my door looked as if it had been used in a police training exercise. The lock had obviously been replaced on more than one occasion and the previous occupants must have lost the use of their arms judging by the cracks, dents and shoe marks at its base. 

Matron unlocked the door, handed me the key and stood back allowing me a glimpse through the doorway into what at first appeared to be a cell! 

“Breakfast will be at eight o’clock, and I’ve been told that you’ll be collected from the restaurant at nine for your orientation. If you have any questions or problems, our flat is on the ground floor. Bill and Simon are two other British students and their rooms are at the end of the corridor. Oliver is next to you in 37.”  

I honestly think that she enjoyed her role as surrogate mother and I believe that she genuinely wanted to help which obviously rankled with the views of her husband who, with a trace of a scornful smile on his lips added, “The other Brits, Bill and Simon have the largest rooms.” I sensed that he was trying to add some unpleasantness to his wife’s jollity. I could not be sure but was he trying to say that the others were more important than me? 

“Bill and Simon?” I asked. “Are they newbie’s like me?” 

“No, Billy’s been here a while, but Simon’s just starting like you. Oliver said that he’d head for the bar; he’s a really polite young man. I’m pretty sure that Billy’s popped into Oxford for dinner.” With that she headed off. Her husband followed behind, equally balanced with a chip on both shoulders! It all started to make sense. Matron kept him under her thumb, so to exact revenge, he would try to take it out on us and reassert his diminished manhood!  

Left on my own there was nothing for it, time to acquaint myself with my new home. Nothing could have prepared me for the meagre and gloomy sight contained within. The musty smell of old furniture and the aroma of stale cigarettes did not add a welcoming feel to the place. My room was neither functional nor cosy, not by a long way. There was a single bed made up in the style favoured by the British prison service, a small wooden desk that can only be described as distressed and a sink which was not quite flush with the wall. First impressions were not good! Taking three steps forward I had crossed the expansive floor area of my room to the window. I pulled one of the thin yellow curtains aside which had obscured my view out towards the airfield beyond the flat roofs of the buildings opposite. I gazed out and was rewarded with the sight of a Learjet, a small American business jet, roaring into the sky and a smile appeared back on my face. It was then that I realised I did not need luxury, I just needed to fly. 

It would be a couple of days later when chatting to Sally, that I would find out that this particular Learjet belonged to the racing driver Ayrton Senna and that it was flown by one of the most pleasant and kindest men in aviation, Mark, who would be my friend and colleague for the next twenty five years before sadly succumbing like so many to the big C. 

Right, unpack later. Beer, definitely time for a beer and try to find another of my inmates. If he had just arrived from the States then I was sure that he would probably be feeling the same as me, in need of a medicinal pick me up. Time to find Oliver, compare notes and share our first impressions! 

He was not a difficult person to locate. Standing six foot five tall and, as I was to later find out, an ex-American college football player, part Nigerian, part American with a little bit of German on his grandmother’s side, Oliver was quite an imposing figure, but seemed like a really cool guy. 

“Hi, Alan isn’t it? Thought you’d be along eventually, knowing you Brits and how you like your beer! I took the liberty and even ordered one for you!” Now I really like this guy I thought.  

“It’s a bit warm now, but that’s how you like it I believe!” Oliver added whilst handing me the first of many beers that night.  

We had bonded and I knew then that we would be friends for life, especially as only a year later he would help save the lives of my family and closest friends. 

Oliver and I staggered back to our ‘lodge’, cutting a path across the apron where some of the privately owned aircraft were parked and over the less than manicured lawns of earlier. We were just like any other normal guys staggering back from a boozy Friday night out, the two of us tracing a path like a couple of drunk crabs, but managing to successfully make our way back. 

We crept in through the main door and ran up the stairs with exaggerated and unsuccessful quietness in our drunken state, noisily shushing each other as we went. On negotiating the top of the stairs, Oliver knocked over the fire extinguisher, in what can only be described as a ‘slow motion’ moment, the metal canister toppled end over end down the staircase. The thudding noise of the escaping fire extinguisher as it hit each stair echoed around the walls like bombs dropping. We froze to the spot; our mouths wide open in horror. The only sound we could hear were our hearts thumping loudly inside our chests. It reached the bottom with an almighty crash. We waited, hardly daring to breathe, preparing ourselves for the onslaught of recriminations that would be hurled at us once Matron or her sour faced husband appeared. Time passed – and what seemed like eternity. Nothing, nothing stirred.  

Closing my door behind me I held onto the wobbly sink for support.  At least now I knew how it had got that way. Fumbling with the belt to my jeans and giving up, I emptied my pockets of accumulated rubbish and frighteningly little in the way of cash. I realised with some despair that I had knocked a sizable hole in my twenty pound monthly allowance, but more importantly, what the devil was going on with my ear? According to my small digital clock on the obviously distressed bedside table, I had been in Oxford for six hours and sober for two of them. More disturbingly though, I could not work out why my left ear hurt so badly and where was this blood coming from?   

I realised I was alone again and my anxieties returned. I was wondering if I would be able to cope with this new emotion, one that I was not enjoying and could probably be attributed to far too much beer. Lying down, I prayed the room would stay still long enough for me to make myself both comfortable and safe. In my time I had fallen out of many beds finding myself on the floor staring at the ceiling; but this was one carpet I had no intention of forming any close relationship with. In my sorry state I contemplated whether it would be best to get undressed before I fell asleep or just wait until the morning. I opted for the latter on health and safety grounds.  

With the amount of alcohol that I had consumed, I was stupidly feeling a bit sorry for myself, ‘bloody baby’ I thought. I knew from experience that sleep would not come easy, not with my sozzled mind working overtime, my emotions somersaulting between exhilaration and panic with everything in-between. I just hoped that I could keep ‘everything’ inside - at least until the morning! 

Waking up on the first day of the rest of your life with a major hangover and a bloodstained pillow is not ideal, however, that is what happened, courtesy of my new best friend Oliver and a yet to be identified Libyan. What was important, I had a buddy and I am very lucky to say, thirty years later he still is.

A FLEDGLING PILOT FLEEING THE NEST......OR ALTERNATIVELY WHAT LED ME TO BE ABLE TO BE AND DO WHAT I AM TODAY.......

‘Sharks prefer women who wear brightly coloured bikinis.’ A great tag line!

No, I have not been at the Absinthe again! It’s actually a statement of fact to do with how the profile of the body is broken up; a statement which rather loosely was involved in how I chose my future career whilst I was at school. Let me explain…..

It all started on the first day at my senior school. I was sitting at the table in my class of thirty pupils next to my new best friend Peter, someone whom I had known for almost forty minutes. This was how long it took for him to try and convince me of where my future lay.  

When the teacher went around the class asking us eleven year olds what we would like to do when we left school, Peter kept saying, “You want to be a banker like my Dad, he makes lots of money!” Now I might only have been eleven years old, but it was obvious to me that I would have way more fun being a pilot than working in a bank.  

Thinking about the choice for a second or two, I replied, ‘Pilot, Sir. That’s what I’d like to be.’ This was met with the same sigh that was meted out to the first boy who said he wanted to be an astronaut. But it was the truth, and would prove to be rather prophetic, even if it did disappoint Peter, my new ex-best friend.  

My “posh” grammar school was built next to a rough South London housing estate. When my friends and I navigated our way through the local roads we always had to be on our guard because the local boys who came from other schools saw us as the enemy. On one particular morning I was rushing to get to school before our assembly, and running late as usual courtesy of British rail. Now I was not the biggest boy in the class, kind of wiry but could move when required, especially when being chased. As I was looking one way a couple of bullies from the local comprehensive pounced on me, one with his hand on my blazer collar, the other trying to snatch my schoolbag which contained my packed lunch and tuck shop money! Ducking a couple of well judged punches, I managed to break free and leg it, complete with schoolbag.  I ran like a whippet and my lungs felt as if they would burst. I made it to safety inside the school grounds and turned around to see my two adversaries standing at a distance, watching.  A wry smile and I was gone. 

For many years I would stare out of the classroom window, my eyes were drawn to the listed control tower of the historical airport where we were located, this protruded above the warehouses opposite. I dreamt of 35,000 feet not algebra! Often to break this reverie, an expertly thrown wooden board duster would arc its way above my classmates, bouncing off my head and sorely bringing me back to the present! I can honestly say that it was thrown at some speed and practiced accuracy by my psychotic class teacher. This was years before the words nanny state or political correctness could be found among the Daily Mail’s headlines and an action which I have a hunch would probably be frowned upon these days! 

To my delight and the possible excuse for my lack of attention, the school was nostalgically located on the site of the old Croydon airport. Steeped in history and legend, this is where the romance of flying with Imperial Airways on those pre-war routes promised adventure. The daydreams flooding my mind took me to destinations which took days and sometimes weeks to complete; to the once pink areas printed on the maps of the Far East and Africa, far flung colonies once literally belonging to the wealthy and the powerful of Great Britain.

A couple of years later, ideas for my future career took a swerve and changed to that of an Ichthyologist, a long word which I liked immensely, not least because it sounded a lot grander than a fish-expert; a word which I took from the then blockbuster film, “Jaws”.  However, this was to prove to be a poor choice of career, as technically, I fell at the first hurdle. You see, I was to find out that the concept of diving and being submerged scared the hell out of me! You just never knew what you might meet swimming around down there. I had recently seen the science fiction film “The Abyss”, which raised many spooky concerns about the oceans within me. I still liked the idea in principal and I was not yet totally discouraged.   

It was after watching the film “The Deep” starring Jacqueline Bisset that I resolved to start putting into action some of my ideas. Being tasked with making something practical in my metalwork class, I became convinced that a life swanning around on boats in and out of the ocean was the life for me.  

For my metalwork project I decided to make a bang stick. This is a long hollow metal pole with a trigger mechanism, allowing you from a short but safe distance to discharge a shell or bullet into the fish of your choice, primarily to discourage it from turning you into lunch, but more likely an underwater pea shooter when faced with a twenty foot great white shark. If ever used in anger, “We’re going to need a bigger stick” would have been an apt phrase I should think.

It was another boy in the class who came to my rescue in putting the finishing touches to my project. Lawrence, who travelled back and forth to school on the train with me every day provided the most important piece. At weekends he often went shooting with his Dad on a local farm, and whilst he was definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he’d always try to help you out if he could. I persuaded him to give me one of his shotgun cartridges which was necessary to test out my bang stick.

After a couple of weeks slow progress, my device was completed and ready for testing. Now even those with a poor knowledge of geography will not be surprised to find out that there is not a great deal of opportunity to come across a great white, or any other shark for that matter in Croydon, South London. I now know this sounds a bit foolish, but having no sharks to practice on, and discounting the idea of trying it out on Ian, the class bully, I wedged one end of my yet to be patented super-weapon into a vice to steady it. So far no-one was taking a blind bit of interest in me, so with the cartridge in place, I pressed my spring loaded trigger. Nothing happened. I resorted to plan B and did what any thirteen year old boy would do. I hit the trigger with a hammer.

Now I don’t know if you have ever discharged a firearm in a small school workshop, but it tends to be somewhat of an attention grabber! This was obviously pre Columbine, but any probation worker worth his salt would say that at that moment I was heading at great speed in that direction. 

The plaster on the wall six feet away disintegrated and so did any prospect of my receiving a credit for my work. The other boys in my vicinity stared, stunned at the devastation that I had created. My teacher stared in disbelief, no doubt thinking one of his lathes or drills had self-destructed and that he would be personally to blame for any boys returning home minus an arm or two. On recognising that my project was still firmly locked in the jaws of the vice and giving the game away as it was still smoking, he realised that it was one of his idiot pupils who had inadvertently redesigned his workshop. My class was rapidly dismissed, all except for me.  I could see a new found look of respect in the eyes of some of my classmates as they passed me by, heading out of the door. My teacher, with a different look in his eyes, took me to one side, bent me over and gave me the caning of my life. Looking back, I think only one of us enjoyed this punishment.

This was the final nail in the coffin of me becoming the next Jacques Cousteau, that and the fact that I was also kicked out of all biology lectures for kidnapping the class gerbils. You see, I could not stand the fact that they were to be gassed and then dissected by us. My mission and I chose to accept it, was to liberate the two of them from their cage and give them their freedom, although it would turn out to be slightly premature. On the train home from school my furry prisoners were snuggled inside my blazer pocket. Seeing one of the girls who used to catch the same train, I told her to look in my pocket and see what she could find - this was said with all the innocence of a choirboy. Of course, this was too tempting for her but I was still not prepared for the scream and rapidly becoming the centre of attention. I quickly removed the gerbils to my less than secure schoolbag where they enacted their own version of “The Great Escape”.  

There were not many places for them to scurry to on a British Rail second class carriage, and after a quick search I found them hiding under the train carriage’s rear bench seat beneath the feet of an elderly couple. My “so called” friends abandoned me and changed carriages at the next station and I decided that it was probably prudent that I do the same. The two rodents were left to live out their lives feasting on discarded cigarette butts and dropped food scraps whilst riding on the number 37 train between London’s Victoria station and Epsom Downs. In hindsight, I am not sure which would have been the longer or better future for them, the promise of the school gas chamber or an unofficial season ticket for life on British Rail.

A change of career was needed and I decided to commit my endeavours from that moment on to achieving my new and more realistic goal, that of becoming an airline pilot. The rest as they say is history. Though my interest in brightly coloured bikinis never diminished!

Now that I knew what I wanted to do and I was approaching my ‘oh so’ important ‘O’ level exams, I was tasked with coming up with a plan for my future and decided to seek professional advice. My attempt at soliciting advice on how to become a pilot from my Careers Master was as successful as Vlad the Impaler lobbying to win the Nobel Peace Prize! I am sure that the thought of me piloting my alleged educational mentor and his family on his holidays at sometime in the future might not have been too far from the back of his mind and have some bearing on his lack of enthusiasm for my choice.

With as little assistance as he could possibly get away with, and trying to divert me away from my lofty ambitions, he suggested that a career in insurance or possibly the military could be interesting. Handing me a few leaflets on the R.A.F. I was sent on my way.  I considered the R.A.F. for the best part of ten minutes whilst in the queue for the tuck shop and discounted it for multiple reasons; discipline, cowardice, university attendance all cropping up on the con side of the argument.

This left me at an impasse, but fate was to deal me a surprising ace. A month of twenty four hour, seven days a week cramming before my exams worked and I passed eight of them. This surprised everyone, especially my teachers and parents and led to my receiving an award at my schools prize giving ceremony. This could have been a bit ambiguous as it was an award for the most improved student, which I believe most people took to mean the award for the student least likely to succeed. However, I carried my book token around with the reverence attributed to an Olympian’s gold medal.  

My parents, believing that I had turned the corner, offered me a carrot that no one could refuse. If I carried on into the sixth form and did reasonably well in my ‘A’ levels, they would sponsor my pilot training. At least their expectations were being set at a realistic level and I needed no bigger incentive.

My Mum and Dad decided to see if I would enjoy flying, so they kindly set me up with a trial flight out of a small airfield west of London at Booker, which at the time was home to the airplanes from the film, “Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines”. I was to fly with the son of a friend of my Dad’s. The flight was to be on a small single engine Piper aircraft belonging to the British Airways Flying Club. The aircraft was even painted in the British Airways colour scheme! I was amazed when told the reason for flying from here was because my instructor was a chap called Jock Lowe, a British Airways Concorde pilot, and future Flight Operations Director of the company. You could say I was suitably impressed! My Dad certainly did not do anything by halves!  

The flight was everything I thought it would be, the take off from the grassy airfield made all the more special as I was allowed to do it myself, and on my first ever flight! I was shown what to do; how to make the aircraft go up and down and turn. Heading south, I could see London’s Heathrow airport in the distance ahead of us, a Boeing 747 Jumbo jet climbing out on some unknown but soon to be faraway journey. This was what I wanted to do and from then on the only thing I wanted to do. My time airborne with Jock seemed to disappear in an instant. In no time at all I found myself coming in for landing and this part of my adventure was over. The next day I would be back at school grappling with logarithms and football whilst my instructor would be piloting a Concorde to Singapore. This was a concept so farfetched in my young eyes that I could barely grasp it. 

I was now one hundred percent bitten by the bug and decided that somehow I would try and complete my Private Pilots Licence whilst at school. This meant that some evenings I would be working as a barman in my local pub and on Saturdays as the man in the booth at our local multi-storey car park collecting payment from the drivers. I came to hate the phrase ‘tickets please’ with a vengeance! But this work allowed me to save enough money to accumulate the flying hours and learn the basic skills which would eventually lead me to my first pilots licence, though gaining the final certificate was some way off. I had so much to learn whilst I slowly logged the hours to achieve the minimum magic number of forty five; the minimum required by the authorities before giving me permission to terrorise pigeons and my future passengers.  Only then would I be granted a Private Pilots Licence or PPL as it is more commonly known.   

Amongst the multitude of subjects that I had to cover, both in the air and on the ground, I would be required to learn how to take-off and land, basic aerobatics, the correct way to speak on the radio and aviation rules and regulations. It was also important to be fully trained in what to do in an emergency; “Inshallah” would not work for me! But a scenario which would arise in the then not so distant future.  

I would also need to learn how to navigate using a map to help in distinguishing the landmarks around me, there being no signposts at two thousand feet above the ground and extremely difficult to stop and ask for directions, especially for a man! Though this did not stop me from getting lost on several embarassing occasions during cross country exercises! Most importantly, I would need to learn what to do if my engine or engines failed, which they did on more than one occasion and at the most inconvenient time, but more on that later.

Being only able to pay for a one hour flying lesson every fortnight, initially at a flying club called Kingair at Biggin Hill and then at the Biggin Hill School of Flying, meant it was slow work achieving my goal, but great fun. The chief flying instructor, a kind hearted moustachioed character noticed my enthusiasm for all things to do with both the club and aviation, offered me a part time job, which was perfect as it allowed me to quit my high powered job as a car park attendant! I had had my fill of glue sniffers who were convinced that they could undertake their own flying lessons, leaping from the roof like lemmings and without the aid of any winged device I might add. 

So I jumped (but not like the glue sniffers), at the opportunity of spending my Saturdays as general gopher and dogsbody at my flying club, cutting the grass, painting and cleaning out the aircraft. It was a feeling of belonging to the aviation community and whilst I did not realise it at the time, the first step in the quest of my dream.

It may have taken almost six months but that just goes to show my perseverence, so you can imagine that I was chuffed to bits as I achieved my first goal - going solo by my seventeenth birthday, a flight which like other ‘firsts’ I will never forget. On this day my instructor never told me that I was to go solo. I realised afterwards that this was so as not to make me nervous. After a quick couple of circuits where I once again practiced my take-offs and landings, he instructed me to pull over onto a taxiway and with the minimum of fuss left me to it and, more importantly, left me alone.  

Now I remember very little about the intricacies of the next twenty minutes, the procedures and the checklists, only the euphoria once it was over. The adrenalin which flowed through me and the excitement I felt was as if I had personally piloted that Concorde to Singapore and not just flown two square circuits around a small Kent airfield. Fortunately my Dad once again saved the day as he had filmed it using his super 8 video camera, and I could relive the experience as many times as I wanted. Well, I could many years later when it had been converted to DVD! 

After that fabulous day I continued my stop-start flying training, however, there was one small downside as I was unable to finish my PPL before leaving school because I did not have the resources and ran out of time, especially as I had to study for my now ever so important ‘A’ level exams.  

Looking back, maybe I tried to juggle too many balls as I was always busy, trying to fit too many things into too short a time; studying, girls, flying, girls, working and finally girls! All whilst trying to be a model student at school which we all knew was never going to happen! My teachers never knew I was training to be a pilot whilst studying at school and to be honest, I don’t think they would have believed me if I had told them!

The final twist in the tale of my school experience led to me being suspended on the last day of term for some overly enthusiastic celebrations. My friends often ‘borrowed’ my car, an antiquated but much loved Ford Anglia, as it could be started with their school locker key!   

Much to my amusement, I would frequently watch the car disappear out of the school gates without my being asked and often without being invited! To celebrate the last day of term, I volunteered to drive a group of friends to the pub at lunchtime! On our return there were seven of us crammed into my tiny car, six drunk and three still smoking. Being slightly late, I decided to test my road rally skills. This involved overtaking what turned out to be an unmarked police car on the inside, a manoeuvre which allowed me to swerve into the school car park. With the yelling, screaming and ‘words’ of encouragement from my friends, I was convinced that my Ford Anglia had the performance of an F1 car which in hindsight was akin to entering a poodle, complete with jockey into the Grand National. 

Ten minutes later I was sitting in my usual seat outside the headmasters study, waiting to be summoned for what I considered to be the coup-de-grace. The door opened and I was called in. For some reason then unknown to me, I was shown mercy. The headmaster had spoken to my father and as it was the last day of term I was to be just suspended. This meant that I would be able to finish my studies. I know I was lucky at just a suspension - I mean they could have taken my book token away!  

Before I returned for my final term, my Dad said something strange to me. 

 “Be careful driving over those speed bumps when you go back to school!”  

How was he to know? Did he visit my school during the holidays because this was news to me? Unbeknownst to me, during the holiday period the school had commissioned speed bumps built along the drive into the school car park. This was the deal brokered for my suspension and not expulsion! My long suffering parents had come to my rescue again and put this latest escapade down to youthful exuberance. 

In the years to come they would rescue me more often than an RNLI crew in the North Sea, a fact which I am always eternally grateful for….

At the start of my final term I knuckled down in earnest. This implied studying as hard as I could, but in reality as hard as I deemed it was absolutely necessary to prepare myself for my upcoming exams. This meant that in my physics classes I basically copied everything Nick my lab partner did. This did not quite work as well as I hoped, for whilst Nick is now a highly respected Professor of Neurosurgery, I obtained a less distinguished grade E. Today this would not be described as a fail grade, but simply that I had deferred my success.

My second ‘A’ level, General Studies, was an exam which was almost impossible to fail, mainly because the teachers had no idea what to teach. For two hours on a Tuesday and a Thursday afternoon, half a dozen of us could be found in the groundsman’s house drinking beer and smoking whilst watching videos with his wife. Thinking back it could have been worse; they could have been videos of his wife! This was like our secret club, not quite along the lines of “The Dead Poets Society”, but it did release us for a short period of time from the stress of our impending final exams, made us feel that little bit rebellious, if only for a couple of hours. 

I strangely managed to obtain a grade B in this subject which goes someway to pointing out how ridiculous this particular subject was, seeing as I cannot remember a thing about it. I suppose it was basically a “filler” in the exam system, similar to lettuce in a prawn cocktail, there to bolster the exam success rates and the perception of improvement in an underachieving schools’ performance. 

Now maths was a subject that I enjoyed but more importantly, slightly understood. I used to set about calculus and integration with an enthusiasm not unlike one of the spotty anorak bedecked oiks you could find on a platform at Clapham Junction when the new railway timetable was published. This led to a grade C and a triumph of perseverance over ability. 

It was geography where I turned it around, and realised that fluent waffle and highly complex and often absurdly incorrect technical illustrations would suffice to obtain a stunning grade B pass. So there I was with three ‘A’ level passes and I had the certificates to prove it. 

By now you have probably come to the same conclusion, that all in all, I was very lucky as a teenager.  Not only did my parents promise to sponsor my flight training, but they were also the reason for my having the travel bug planted in me. 

My family would take fabulous vacations during the school holidays and they would take me along too, regardless of how many animals I had liberated from the school’s euthanasia programme or holes I had blown in walls.  

Fortunately my experiment of brewing beer in one of our student lockers could not be directly attributed to me; my cunning idea to place the largest of the fermenting buckets in my buddy’s locker, who was sick in hospital at the time, had been a masterstroke. After one hot weekend and too much sugar, the frothy congealing liquid had oozed out and spread over the floor of the main hallway, giving the game away!  

Otherwise, once again after my parents had received their almost monthly newsletter from my Headmaster, our forthcoming trip to Los Angeles would have probably been in jeopardy! Our adventures as a family would cause us to visit many other places, ones as diverse as Lichtenstein, Hawaii, cruise around the Caribbean or head off on African safaris. Destinations which were both considered extreme and exotic some thirty years ago. 

Despite my schoolboy pranks, which were the cause of my parents’ worry and numerous reprimands, I found myself driving up to Oxfordshire to enrol at the UK’s premier flight school; CSE Aviation in Kidlington to commence my commercial flight training.

The real fun and my life was about to begin!  

I was one seriously lucky young man and to this day I can never thank my often despairing parents enough……..