I was a fighter jock.
I was a warrior who needed Ray Bans to look even cooler.
I would not admit to being a member of a team, only its leader.
If I was not leading the team it was no wonder things went pear-shaped - the boss should have let me lead it in the first place.
I served my squadron always, except on weekends.
I would always place the mission first, unless it was QRA when I would place the junior pilot first.
I would never quit trying to get out of night-flying.
I would never leave a fallen comrade if his car was the only lift back from the pub.
I flew single-seaters because I could not be trusted with the life of another aviator.
Consequently, I would not admit my mistakes but would always blame my wingman.
So it was he who failed to spot the bogey in his 6 o’clock, who engaged the Royal Flight by mistake and who recovered us to the wrong airfield.
I flew two-seaters because I could not be trusted with my own life and had to be monitored.
Consequently, I would not admit my mistakes but would always blame my navigator.
So it was he who misread the fuel gauge, who forgot to select Master Arm to Arm and who scraped the stabilator on landing.
I would never accept defeat, knowing that whoever shouted loudest at the debrief would win regardless of the evidence.
I was an expert and a professional, far too important to have been looking after the coffee bar or fish tank.
I stood ready to engage and destroy anyone who suggested that I should enrol in ISS.
I was a guardian of flying pay and the duty-free way of life.
I was a fighter jock.