Oh Fod…
“Have you got your passport with you?”
I love conversations with your editor that start like that but the buzz lasted precisely one whole question.
“Do you fancy doing a piece about the crap they find on airport runways?” You can click below to see the finished piece.
The Flight Operations Manager of Manchester Airport told me he’d only left university that year and was now in charge of all the planes taking off and landing at one of the biggest airports in Britain. Luckily George seemed quite a serious and responsible chap and I’m happy it’s someone like him doing this job so soon after graduating rather than someone like me. It wouldn’t have been safe to put me in charge of a toaster at that stage of life.
As we set off down the side of the taxiway in a white 4x4 with flashing lights on top, I was aware we were driving quite fast. 60mph in a built up area with millions of pounds worth of aeroplanes on each side of us.
“We only have short windows of opportunity to get round the bottom of the runway before the next plane comes in,” I’m told.
I was reminded of an episode of Top Gear from 2010 when they purposefully drove an Citröen 2CV across the backdraft of a 747 at full thrust. It was thrown into the air like a toy being chucked away by a petulant child.
Needless to say, George was right when he explained:
“We don’t want to be anywhere near them when they’re coming into land.”
We made it to the far side of the runway and got out. The fuselage of an old plane was lying on the ground off to my right - it’s where the fire crews rehearse their emergency drills and I was handed a pair of ear defenders and told to put them on. NOW. A few seconds later a plane ripped past us as the pilot opened up the throttle and it roared into the sky. I was filming this interview as well as recording it for radio - a task only ever given to the broadcasting world’s underachievers. If you’re a big name flash Harry correspondent you get to do either radio or TV. Not both. Having to do more for less is not a mark of how much you mean to someone, it’s just an indicator of how malleable you are. I’m at the “total mug” end of the spectrum but I wired up the microphones and started filming the interview. The idea was for me to ask George a question and he’d answer it just as the next plane whistled past and took off. Eight attempts and eight planes later we finally got it in the bag. My teeth were still rattling as we climbed back into the Landcruiser and headed to the bottom end of the runway. A call was made to the tower to check how long we had till the next plane came into land and then we were ready to roll. The idea of this sequence was to shoot some pictures as George drove along the runway, checking for FOD - Foreign Object Debris. You would be very surprised if I told you what they find on runways.
Oh, go on then…
Bits of concrete, nuts and bolts, pens, coins, ID badges, tyres, ear plugs, paper clips, drinks cans, tools, suitcase wheels, luggage tags, screws, clothing, rocks, sand and animals - dead or alive (go on, admit it, you thought I was going to say ‘sex toy’).
Every couple of hours of every single day they make these journeys, ducking and diving between planes taking off and landing, ensuring the runway and the taxiway is clear. They take this job really seriously - and I’m glad they do.
To get the shot I needed, I sat in the front seat of the car with the window open, stretching myself back out of the vehicle to get as wide an angle as I could. It was really hard to stretch back - the harness I was in was really tight at my waist and my legs were scrunched up. Tight jeans had been a mistake. I pulled my keys and everything else out of pockets, threw them on the dashboard and we set off. We were soon doing 70mph as we hared down the runway, the FOD spotters in the front and back seats scouring the runway as we went. There was constant chatter.
“Tyre rubber 250m.”
“Rabbit remains - flattened. Off runway.”
“Unknown item. Opposite T1, L Pier, Gate 13. Send a team out.”
I climbed back inside the car, the shots - I already knew - were good. We swooped sharp right at the end of the runway to get clear with plenty of time before the next plane came into land. Back in the terminal George and his team said goodbye to me and I set off back to the car park, stopping off to validate my ticket.
And that’s when I found my wallet wasn’t in my pocket.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you go ice cold and clammy at the same time? When the bristles on your neck stick up and all you can think to say is …
“Oh Fod”
I’d dropped a clanger. As we’d swerved round the end of the runway my wallet had gently slid out of the open window and landed somewhere it shouldn’t have. This was a big issue and as I explained to George and his team what had happened I saw a few of them raising their eyes to the sky and cursing. If they didn’t find it quickly, they’d have probably had to initiate a full search of the apron, taxiways and runways.
The Landcruiser made another journey out onto the runway. I spent an hour pacing up and down like a relative outside a hospital ward. Each time someone came through the security gate, I’d get my hopes up only to have them dashed when it turned out to be a baggage handler on their lunch break. Eventually, George came out. He walked slowly towards me, looking a bit like a disappointed head teacher. He was holding my wallet out as if it was slightly contaminated.
Luckily, no journeys were disrupted by my flying credit cards. It had been found in the long grass at the bottom end of the runway. A black wallet, hard to see, only the size of a bank card and they’d been able to trace it - which makes me, secretly, very pleased .. because it proves how FOD free the runways are.