Everything went well until round about Christmas time, when I was arrested with two other blokes coming out of a flat that didn’t belong to us in Dulwich village. I got put into a remand hostel for three days while I waited to go in front of the magistrates. I hated being locked up and swore that if I got away with it I’d never let it happen again. I knew deep down that I’d have to do something pretty decisive or I’d end up spending my entire life in Peckham, fucking about and getting fucked up. The army seemed a good way out. My brother had enjoyed it, so why not me?

When the case came up the other two got sent to Borstal. I was let off with a caution, and the following day I took myself down to the army recruiting office. They gave me a simple academic test, which I failed. They told me to come back a calendar month later, and this time, because it was exactly the same test, I managed to scrape through by two points.

I said I wanted to be a helicopter pilot, as you do when you have no qualifications and not a clue what being one involves.

“There’s no way you are going to become a helicopter pilot,” the recruiting sergeant told me. “However, you can join the Army Air Corps if you want. They might teach you to be a helicopter refueler.”

“Great,” I said, “that’s me.”

You are sent away for three days to a selection center where you take more tests, do a bit of running, and go through medicals. If you pass, and they’ve got a vacancy, they’ll let you join the regiment or trade of your choice.

I went for my final interview, and the officer said, “McNab, you stand more chance of being struck by lightning than you do of becoming a junior leader in the Army Air Corps. I think you’d be best suited to the infantry. I’ll put you down for the Royal Green Jackets. That’s my regiment.”

I didn’t have a clue about who or what the Royal Green Jackets were or did. They could have been an American football team for all I knew.