When I was 16 I was briefly smitten with the idea of signing up to
the RAF, since (a) my dad was a Group Captain, and (b) my best friend
at school signed up for a year before going off to Cambridge (he now
lives in Milton Keynes and is a frequent right-of-Duncan Smith
contributor to the letters page of the Independent). I even got as
far as the local recruitment office in Bath Street, Glasgow, but my
condition of UFF (Unfortunately Flat Feet) saw that particular idea
off. That same evening I went to see Joy Division supporting (or
shall we say overwhelming and outdoing) the Buzzcocks at the Apollo.
Militaristic impulse again.
Three years thereafter the Falklands War was in full swing. We had
planned to go to New York for the summer but there was
an "unfortunate administrative delay" in issuing our visas. We
received them in the post the day after the surrender at Port
Stanley. Paranoid? Well, let's just say I was waiting for the
recorded delivery white feather, postmarked Aldershot.
― Marcello Carlin, Saturday, 18 August 2001 00:00 (twenty-four years ago)