On Arriving at RMAS
In the course of production my truth became stranger than fiction last year, as I found myself, in the
pursuit of the ‘Other Ranks’ installation, snuggling down to sleep in the Officers’ Mess, Royal Military
Academy Sandhurst. I’ve now undertaken the first two of three recording sessions with RMAS staff
and cadets, and am loving every minute of it.
I had so much fun, in fact, that I’ve decided I must share it with you.
I was delighted, from the first moment, to be greeted and passed in by Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs, straight from the Discworld, as I live and breathe.
They were kind enough to indulge us with standard ‘civi’ gags’ about how we should stand behind the line (for a photo ID) because they were going to shoot us...asking for one kind of ID, then cheerfully accepting another: "This is all I’ve got. Will it do?" ... "No, but it’ll have to."
This was followed by three phone calls, all at cross purposes, trying to establish whether the door code I’d been given would actually let us in, and whether we could be freed to take ourselves in, having been given the door code, or whether we were altogether a bad and sorry lot (no badges, no boots, no clue) to be treated with utmost suspicion.
We eventually gained entry to the Slim Mess "Nothing to do with waist size," as my appointed minder/fixer/saviour/buddy was keen to assure me, over the phone, radiating the thought that, as civilians and what the Army calls "media" (they don’t have a classification for Digital Installation Artists or specialist Creative Sound Engineers - can’t think why not), we were bound to be a pair of lard buckets, but must be made welcome, nonetheless.
So, we slipped our slender forms into the building, feeling like undercover agents and followed our instructions to the dead letter drop of our room keys. Before the world got much older we located our accommodation block: the Band Block (where they keep the musicians?), and thankfully not the Mortuary Block (What? Why...?), or the Isolation Block (???), and eventually (with help from a competently military pair of people, we even discovered the stairs. Result! Cinders shall sleep in the building!
We found our rooms... and this is when the grin of delighted bafflement took root around my chops, proving itself pretty much immovable, thence and for the duration. Each room had an astonishing (and extremely impressive) array of storage. Wardrobes, drawers, shelves... and an entire ante- room with yet more, plus an enormous trunk-like ottoman-thing. The message is a clear and unequivocal one: "Stay! Be welcome; be at home; be here as long as you like!... As long as you’ve brought your own teabags, that is..."
I was prepared for no drinks-making facilities in the room. Sometimes you get the kettle and drinks tray; sometimes not. I didn’t have a clue what an Officers’ Mess take on this question might be. I would have been thrilled if yes, philosophical if no. The reality, however, forced me to sit down on the bed, in order to laugh harder:
There, perched like the FA Cup, stood an enormous, shining, state-of-the-art kettle... all on its own, in splendid isolation on the side. No cups, spoons, beverages and especially no explanation (unless you count the cheerful exhortation, on the kettle’s flank: "Lest you forget: Tea. Coffee"). This is the British Army. It is what it is; no need to explain.
Ok; in the Army everyone drinks boiling water from their hands. Fine! Let’s have a look in the bathroom... (Mmm-hmmm; en suite bathing already; there’s lovely).
Here again, bags of shelf space. Smart, sensible and beautifully maintained fixtures. No nest of nasty cosmetics (good; would have been disappointed to find them there). Masses of spare loo rolls (notes to self; they know something I don’t about the food around here...or maybe it’s the fear...). Enormous, sparkling, gorgeous, boiling hot towel rack, dominating one wall...and no towel.
This time it was the loo’s lid I sat down on, and again, no towel? Fair enough; bring your own. No place to put absent towel? Totally fair enough; no towel; who needs even one rail, let alone an array of half a dozen? Somehow, though, the presence of the towel rail, with its silently eloquent reproach that you should clearly not come to an Officers’ Mess without a towel, reduced me to ribbons of mirth. Still does, as I write this.
It was the best, most informative and entertaining arrival I could have hoped for (well I don’t get out much, being a starving artist with young children; it’s all relative). It made me think...
The serious implication of the hospitality was a telling one: the British Army prides itself on understanding about comfort and meeting core human needs with effective utilitarianism. They realise that you need space for your kit; a warm, comfortable and dry bed; peaceful surroundings; excellent bathing facilities, and a kettle for your tea. Absolutely fundamentally, however, you are supposed to be carrying with you everything (and they mean everything) you need for your own comfort. If you’re not carrying your rations, toiletries and kit then you’ve only yourself to blame.
Got it! Message received: Roger. Out.
On this first visit, however, we snuck, civilian-like, into an inexplicable kitchen, and found a solitary knife; broke our bread and sat, sipping wine from tooth mugs and blessing whichever Tricksterdeity had guided us here.
I’d ruled out breakfast in the Officers’ Mess instantly, on being informed that there is a dress code ... yes; that’s right, a dress code ... for breakfast... so we broke our fast on grapes, bread and cheese (the Waitrose answer to the notorious British Army ‘rat pack’), and, pausing only to dry ourselves on the pillow-cases, bolted for Costa coffee, still chuckling.
I had so much fun, in fact, that I’ve decided I must share it with you.
I was delighted, from the first moment, to be greeted and passed in by Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs, straight from the Discworld, as I live and breathe.
They were kind enough to indulge us with standard ‘civi’ gags’ about how we should stand behind the line (for a photo ID) because they were going to shoot us...asking for one kind of ID, then cheerfully accepting another: "This is all I’ve got. Will it do?" ... "No, but it’ll have to."
This was followed by three phone calls, all at cross purposes, trying to establish whether the door code I’d been given would actually let us in, and whether we could be freed to take ourselves in, having been given the door code, or whether we were altogether a bad and sorry lot (no badges, no boots, no clue) to be treated with utmost suspicion.
We eventually gained entry to the Slim Mess "Nothing to do with waist size," as my appointed minder/fixer/saviour/buddy was keen to assure me, over the phone, radiating the thought that, as civilians and what the Army calls "media" (they don’t have a classification for Digital Installation Artists or specialist Creative Sound Engineers - can’t think why not), we were bound to be a pair of lard buckets, but must be made welcome, nonetheless.
So, we slipped our slender forms into the building, feeling like undercover agents and followed our instructions to the dead letter drop of our room keys. Before the world got much older we located our accommodation block: the Band Block (where they keep the musicians?), and thankfully not the Mortuary Block (What? Why...?), or the Isolation Block (???), and eventually (with help from a competently military pair of people, we even discovered the stairs. Result! Cinders shall sleep in the building!
We found our rooms... and this is when the grin of delighted bafflement took root around my chops, proving itself pretty much immovable, thence and for the duration. Each room had an astonishing (and extremely impressive) array of storage. Wardrobes, drawers, shelves... and an entire ante- room with yet more, plus an enormous trunk-like ottoman-thing. The message is a clear and unequivocal one: "Stay! Be welcome; be at home; be here as long as you like!... As long as you’ve brought your own teabags, that is..."
I was prepared for no drinks-making facilities in the room. Sometimes you get the kettle and drinks tray; sometimes not. I didn’t have a clue what an Officers’ Mess take on this question might be. I would have been thrilled if yes, philosophical if no. The reality, however, forced me to sit down on the bed, in order to laugh harder:
There, perched like the FA Cup, stood an enormous, shining, state-of-the-art kettle... all on its own, in splendid isolation on the side. No cups, spoons, beverages and especially no explanation (unless you count the cheerful exhortation, on the kettle’s flank: "Lest you forget: Tea. Coffee"). This is the British Army. It is what it is; no need to explain.
Ok; in the Army everyone drinks boiling water from their hands. Fine! Let’s have a look in the bathroom... (Mmm-hmmm; en suite bathing already; there’s lovely).
Here again, bags of shelf space. Smart, sensible and beautifully maintained fixtures. No nest of nasty cosmetics (good; would have been disappointed to find them there). Masses of spare loo rolls (notes to self; they know something I don’t about the food around here...or maybe it’s the fear...). Enormous, sparkling, gorgeous, boiling hot towel rack, dominating one wall...and no towel.
This time it was the loo’s lid I sat down on, and again, no towel? Fair enough; bring your own. No place to put absent towel? Totally fair enough; no towel; who needs even one rail, let alone an array of half a dozen? Somehow, though, the presence of the towel rail, with its silently eloquent reproach that you should clearly not come to an Officers’ Mess without a towel, reduced me to ribbons of mirth. Still does, as I write this.
It was the best, most informative and entertaining arrival I could have hoped for (well I don’t get out much, being a starving artist with young children; it’s all relative). It made me think...
The serious implication of the hospitality was a telling one: the British Army prides itself on understanding about comfort and meeting core human needs with effective utilitarianism. They realise that you need space for your kit; a warm, comfortable and dry bed; peaceful surroundings; excellent bathing facilities, and a kettle for your tea. Absolutely fundamentally, however, you are supposed to be carrying with you everything (and they mean everything) you need for your own comfort. If you’re not carrying your rations, toiletries and kit then you’ve only yourself to blame.
Got it! Message received: Roger. Out.
On this first visit, however, we snuck, civilian-like, into an inexplicable kitchen, and found a solitary knife; broke our bread and sat, sipping wine from tooth mugs and blessing whichever Tricksterdeity had guided us here.
I’d ruled out breakfast in the Officers’ Mess instantly, on being informed that there is a dress code ... yes; that’s right, a dress code ... for breakfast... so we broke our fast on grapes, bread and cheese (the Waitrose answer to the notorious British Army ‘rat pack’), and, pausing only to dry ourselves on the pillow-cases, bolted for Costa coffee, still chuckling.