13 December 1978. That was a Wednesday. - Wow I can almost hear you think... What a memory this man has. - well not quite. We all have them - dates that are etched in our memories and this is one of mine.
The phrase winter of discontent was plagiarised from Shakespeare's Richard III ("Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York") and coined by the British media to describe the dying throes of the Labour government under James Callaghan.
"I think its time for truth - and the truth is you're lost uncle Jimmy' sang the Jam in '77 and they were right. Amid spiralling anger at the governments wage policies (Ironically actually bringing down inflation from its Tory '75 high of 26% to single figures) the public, inspired by the Ford workers strike, went on the largest withdrawal of labour since the great depression of the late 20's. Railwaymen, Refinery workers, Ambulancemen, Nurses and Lorry Drivers went on strike. Bodies went unburied, Petrol stations closed, hospital admissions were reduced. And the snow came down - hard.
So what happened on the 13 of December, I hear you ask... Well, I actually WENT to work..... I joined the Royal Air Force. - Alright, I was already working in a factory, but deep amid the strife of the time, I travelled by one of the few trains that were running, to RAF Swinderby in Lincolnshire. Sticking two fingers up at my parents from the window as the train pulled out of the station, seems in hindsight a little harsh, but it was a momentous breakaway for me. Away from the shit and grime of the factory. Doubling my wages at a time when people were striking over pay.
For the next 6 weeks (plus 2 weeks off for Christmas) I would reveille at Oh-Six-Fifteen Hours. - 6.15 am. A time I didn't know existed, in the pitch dark. Whilst we dressed, radio 2 was piped through the public address system, playing songs such as Mirrors by Sally Oldfield and occasionally songs from Des O'Connors Christmas album.. Winter Wonderland..
Scoffing as much food as I could muster in the Airman's Mess, by 7.30am I was stood by my bed ready for inspection, by 8am I was doing Physical Training, or learning how to shoot, fight - the key skills needed to be an Airman in the Royal Air Force. My hair shorn, I was taught to wash clean and Iron. We marched everywhere, and although I ate 3 huge meals a day, and didn't have any weight to lose... I lost weight.
I became a marksman with the standard issue Self Loading Rifle, firing 5 of its 7.62mm rounds through a circle the size of a 2 pence piece. The rear sight broke my spectacles when it kicked back. And without this eye correction I then suffered the humiliation of not seeing my cue from the RAF Regiment corporal when carrying out chemical warfare training in the dreaded 'Gas Chamber' - Annoyed at my lack of response to his gesticulation in the swirling fog of CS Gas, he dragged me forward and removed my Gas Mask, or to give it it's correct title a Mk6 Respirator.
Gasping for air I stood upright whilst he processed 3 more Airmen. Made them remove their mask and give their name rank and number. By the time he got to me, I was a gibbering wreck. I think i spluttered out the details, but had to be dragged outside by my webbing, where I threw up on the grass.
Did I mention the snow? Well the culmination of all this running around were 3 days of field training on the North Yorkshire Moors. In a Tent. One of the nights was spent in a makeshift bivouac made by clipping 2 waterproof ponchos together. We patrolled at night, Escape and Evasion in our green camouflage outfits, across a white winter wonderland, lit by a full moon - Unsurprisingly, we were all caught... The Winter of discontent became a winter of discomfort.
But somehow, I passed the exams. Overcame my fear of heights on the assault course and on the 31st January 1979, inside a freezing cold hanger, with the snow still lying around. We paraded our flight of recruits and 'Passed Out' as Aircraftmen in the Royal Air Force. With four months of trade training ahead of me, and a 9 years contract, it was only the beginning. But those six weeks, and the Winter of discontent, are etched in my mind like no other.
And always will be.
