I’m sitting here eating a microwaved vegetable biryani in front of my computer, having returned from a Ginsters-fuelled morning shoot of a band at Shoreham Airport, a cute, art deco building surrounded by dodgy Italian mopeds of the sky—not just propellor aircraft that look like they are powered by elastic bands, but helicopters that were probably based on Leonardo’s original sketches. I don’t have a problem with passenger jets, but you wouldn’t catch me up in one those things in a hundred years, especially if I were famous. From Glenn Miller and Buddy Holly to John F. Kennedy Jr and Aaliyah, light aircraft and celebs are a doomed combination.
Everything was organised by a woman who writes for Bliss, but I don’t think that’s where the pics are going to end up. “The boys” had to get changed into blagged designer clothes. (Did you know that Fender of the guitars make shoes? I didn’t.) Their look was styled. I even had to refer to a brief for the session.
[Poot finishes vegi biryani and wanders to kitchen to zap Bombay aloo.] Hey, I’ve been pressing a shutter release and shouting “Now gimme brooding!” at blokes with spiky hair all morning; I need to keep my blood sugar up.
Anyway, as I waited for the band to appear, wandering around looking at the old black-and-white photos of airmen they had on display, I was pleased by the thought that the might of the Luftwaffe was defeated by men with comedy names like Hugh Hume Piffard and Cecil “Pash” Pashley.