My friends and family struggle choosing gifts for me at Christmas or birthdays. There’s a limit to how many socks and undies a man can tolerate, and the last straw was the expensive fountain pen I received last December (really – is this 2023 or 1823? Did they run out of quills?)
“If you’re going to give me something, make it a biography.” I pleaded. For biographies are my happy place, where I can immerse myself in famous lives and gain inspiration from their travails. Just like, doubtless, they find insight from my own experiences as a fellow elite athlete, entrepreneur and media darling.
I’ve even featured in a couple of well-known sporting biographies – Andre Agassi’s ‘Open’ mentions a pest being ejected from the crowd at Wimbledon (I still have the t-shirt declaring ‘Steffi gives me a stiffy’). While Lance Armstrong’s sequel to ‘It’s Not About The Bike’ (titled ‘I Did Warn You It Wasn’t The Bike’) details how he obtained his illegal dietary supplements from a shadowy Antipodean figure.
But I’m gutted not to feature in one of the biggest bios of the decade.
I was in Afghanistan around 2012 flogging off used cars to the locals. They were particularly keen on old farm utes, especially Toyota Hiluxes, as you could fit two dozen hay bales on the tray. Or ten armed insurgents plus a heavy machine gun. Which was a shame, as I was mainly offering Mazda Bongos that had been converted to mobile kebab outlets.
I was spit-roasting a roadkill goat when I noticed a Pommy soldier staring morosely into the fire. “I wonder if he’s got a spare flamethrower?” I pondered. “I could char-grill this carcase in no time.”
I caught his attention. “Can I sell you a falafel, mate? Nothing like a bit of singed chickpea to cheer a bloke up.”
He looked bleakly back at me. “I probably killed 25 men today.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s nothing, mate. I’m banned from driving in 43 countries and I’m not allowed near any sharp objects in the NZ Autocar office.”
I handed over a soggy shawarma to console him. “Still, you’re defending England’s borders out here in the Hindu Kush. I bet your parents are proud of you.”
This didn’t seem to help. “My Mama’s dead and my Papa doesn’t understand me.”
‘You’ve got it easy, mate. My Mum’s pushing eighty but still checks that I’m washing behind my ears every time I see her. Incidentally, that’s 10 Euros for the tucker.”
He fished in his battledress and pulled out a wad of cash and a handful of rubies.
I whistled in appreciation. “Clearly they’re paying squaddies a lot more these days. Is that danger money because you’re operating in a war zone?”
“I’m not a foot soldier, I’m a pilot,” he replied and gestured towards an Apache gunship parked in the shade. “And this pittance is my weekly allowance from my family.”
I looked admiringly at the aircraft and a cunning plan began to coalesce in my mind. The Afghani locals loved the Hilux for its ground clearance and rugged durability; but what transport had more ground clearance than a helicopter?
“Ignoring the Hellfire missiles,” I asked him, “how much power does that thing pull?”
“Roughly 1600 kilowatts,” he answered.
I waved at the Bongo behind me. “Ignoring the rotisserie, that’s 58kW of raw power right there. I’ll swap you a fleet of 30 vans for that tired old chopper. You can even make up the difference with a couple of rubies.”
He looked unsure so I sweetened the deal. “I’ll even throw in some free sauces.”
We shook hands and swapped keys. “You’ll be a hero, mate. Feeding the troops, boosting the local economy – the British press will just lap it up. And it will be an independent source of income; you won’t have to rely on handouts from your family anymore.”
“Good show,” said the ginger prince.
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