Anyone else make this spookily fitting connection? Sitting playing Metal Gear Solid 3, it all came flooding back, in a blur of odd silverware and numbered vests. I had'nt done badly with the RCB to that point. The command tasks had gone well. Leaderless tasks were a good laugh, and I'd managed to keep my elbows of the table in the Mess. The next bit we were all dreading. Still wet from the shower we had to take in negative time, cheap (or not-so-cheap - frucking cav lot, -Daddy's bottomless cash-pit) suits sticking to shaking arms. This was the crunch. The Interviews. "Who the fcuk is Paddy Anan?" "Yah, I've read of this chap in Daddy's paper (not the single paper he means - the fcukin newspaper company...)" "He's ahm, er, overseas aid minister for, ahm, the Girls Brigade, isn't he, yah?" We all sat nervously exchanging (mostly wrong) 'intel' on the world's personalities, that we'd gleaned from the Torygraph over breakfast. My turn came. Into the Corridor of Doom, a machine spitting out, then re-ingesting fraught looking PO's. Nervously grinning outside boringly painted doors. Each of the personalities on the Board were Bosses in a Playstation game ('Army Scholar: Are You Rahhh Enough?') First door, First Boss: The Tankie Captain. He wanted to know about (I presume non-sexual...) Extra Curricular Activities. Luckily, I happened to be registered with the 'magical' D of E scheme. "SPORT!" Barks Boss #1. My health was well up. I was dodging all the fastball questions on hockey and cricket. His stamina gauge was falling as I threw 'fencing captain,' and 'Bisley Ashburton' titles at him. He was on the back foot. I was surprised - most people, I was told, got sorted out by this guy. The time was ripe, I saw my opportunity. He was fidgeting - the kind of fidget that says "As far as I'm concerned.... We'll get back to you." I timed it carefully. He was shuffling papers. "I play a spot of Rugby" He dropped his papers. His eyes lit up. He started dribbling and his eyes rolled like a moon-head who's just eaten paint. "GO ON, BOY, GO ON!!" At this stage, I knew he was going down. Just hoped by the look in his eye he didnât intend to go down on me... "Yes, play a spot for the school, and have represented the Island a couple of times..." I let it hang. He didn't know that the Guernsey RUFC had to use club funds to pay the front row's bail before the away match. Or that the GRUFC, at our age group, had 16 members. Which left my chances to represent the Island doing fairly well. Anyway, at that point, I had him. As far as he was concerned, as long as a PO played Rugger (yes, he did use that truly golden Biggles-like word), he had a sh1tload of P. And was good enough for The Factory. Evil Mr Red Pen nowhere in sight. Outside, more waiting in a boring corridor. My mind was wondering ahead to the last boss. The biggest, the scariest, and of course, the most important. I knew what he would ask me. I had thought long and hard about this. My Rupertish ambitions had started early. Later on in my young life I realised that if I actually wanted to be in the front line, there was a good chance I may have to, well, you know. Could I? Would I have the nerve needed to look my enemy in the eyes, squarely, as I did? Was this flippant 'it's him or me' attitude real, or was it as a result of reading 'Charlie Three One' by Mandy McBlabb far too many times?