Our very own AlienFTM is the subject of the latest HMVF interrogation. Following a heavy night in the editorial office indulging in far too much Alfa beer and Jaffa cakes, we concluded he would be good value.

This has, needless to say, proved to be the case. Neil is always ready with an anecdote or a really good story to enliven many a thread of posts and we are lucky to count him among our happy band. As someone who looks back with affection on the days of football before tattoos, Sunday roasts (of a different sort) and Bentleys for cheap, I have included the odd reference to it because Neil is a passionate Sunderland fan.  Enjoy.

Who are you? What do you do...interest in MV world etc....

My name is Neil Adamson. My parents called me William Neil and I have spent my life answering to William with "It's Neil actually." It's grown worse since the Computer Age because the computer says my name is William and the computer cannot be wrong. A coal miner's son in the 1970s with no prospect of a job in a recession-hit Sunderland, I joined my local cavalry regiment, 15th/19th The King's Royal Hussars. When I married, I decided I was not going to put the marriage under the stresses that came with being in an Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment, so I transferred to the Royal Army Pay Corps where I was later trained in mainframe computer programming.

This gave me an easy crossover into civilian life and I am now a staff software engineer for a multinational IT mega corporation.

As for MVs, I got to play with them for real and be paid for the pleasure, and I had great times. I would love to climb back inside CVR(T)s or Ferrets and reminisce, or to climb into a Chieftain and move it. In June 2007, I got to stand a few feet from a working Tiger 1E and that was just about as good. My lifestyle does not really lend itself to MV ownership, but I do enjoy sharing my reminiscences (We had noticed. Ed)

What inspired you to join the army?

My mother had recently trained to be a History teacher and the local war games group put on a demo, and let me command a Tiger tank. I was bitten by the bug and wanted to command a 60-ton behemoth. What the recruiting office did not tell me when I signed up was that my local cavalry regiment had just changed role from Armour (on Chieftain) to Armoured Reconnaissance (on CVR(T)s).

What advice would you give to a young kid thinking of joining up today?

I left just before the Berlin Wall came down and the first Gulf War. Even though there was a shooting match and questions remain to this day about the effects of certain chemicals and biologicals with which the troops came into contact, I still saw this as a one-off, like the Falklands War. Even though there was massive reduction in the early 90s courtesy of the end of the Cold War, I believed at the time that anybody who had an ounce of desire to play soldiers ought to do so. If he reached 50 and felt he had missed out, there'd be nothing he could do about it and he'd regret it.

However, the second Gulf War changed all that. Troops are overstretched, under funded, under equipped ... I could go on and on. This also happened during the Cold War, but men didn't die every day because of it. Now a father myself, I would move heaven and earth to stop my son if he showed an ounce of desire. For years my mantra has been, "If you don't do it while you can, you'll regret it when it's too late." Now my mantra is a simple, emphatic "NO"!"

What about a scariest moment?

a. Late in 1982 Brezhnev died and the Supreme Soviet informed the world that his replacement would be the head of the KGB. I was in a state of limbo between postings and travelling back and forth regularly between Osnabruck and Paderborn while my wife awaited the imminent birth of our first child.

The night BFBS Radio announced that Andropov was taking over; my thought was "What have I done, bringing a child into this world?"

b. In April 2006 my wife took seriously ill with acute pancreatitis.

As you can see, I was a Recce soldier. We don't get scared. If you have my Hotmail address on MSN Live Messenger, you'll see that my tag line is a line from the classic rock album Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters, by Bob Calvert of Hawkwind and friends:

I don't feel fear or panic; nothing brings me down; I'm an Aerospace Age warrior; I can fly sideways through sound. People have told me it sums me up.

Wait. Here's one.

In 1977, Guided Weapons Troop, B Squadron 15/19H took their Mark 5 Swingfire Ferret Scout Cars to Otterburn Training Area in north Northumberland to carry out what was supposed to be the last ever Royal Armoured Corps Swingfire Anti-tank Guided Missile shoot as the Swingfires were to pass back under command of the Royal Artillery (throughout our subsequent time in BAOR, our Battlegroup had a Troop of Striker CVR(T)s attached to us from J Battery Royal Horse Artillery).

Swingfires were big, heavy, nasty brutes. They came in sealed units the shape and size of a small wheelie-bin without the wheels, which were slid into the launch tubes of the launcher vehicle (Ferret 5, Striker, FV438).

They were a one-man lift, but at a hundredweight in weight, they were heavy.

They were gyroscopically stabilised. We were told that maltreatment (for example dropping) led to the gyros being damaged and this could be seen when the ATGM came out of the tube on launching, it would turn right through 90 degrees and head off northward. This was therefore known as the Scotland Syndrome. Swingfire had 4000 metres of command wire, which it trailed out behind it. At 4000m, the wire would part and the ATGM would continue unguided on its way until the fuel ran out. Legend had it that the farmer north of Otterburn had a fine collection of expired Swingfire Prac ATGMs.

I wasn't in GW Troop. As Squadron Leader's Landrover driver, I was invited to bring the LR along as a fetch and carry. Because of the nature of Swingfire, all firing took place under armour. I and my LR therefore spent our time watching the firing from a hilltop a couple of hundred metres southeast of the firing point, along with the Squadron Medic and a Bedford 4-Tonner and driver to hump Swingfires about and fetch crews from camp to firing point every day,

One morning, as usual, I got a request to drive back to camp to collect stew in a container for lunch. I was away for maybe 20 - 30 minutes. I returned and parked the LR exactly where I'd left it. As I stepped out, waving two fingers at the 4-Tonner driver and the medic as way our way, I realised they were staring at me and looking decidedly white.

"What's wrong with you two? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"About five minutes ago we saw a Swingfire with Scotland Syndrome except it wasn't."

"Whatever do you mean, you silly man?"

"It came out of the tube and instead of turning right, it turned left. It passed a couple of feet to the right of our cab: we looked down on it as it cleared the ridge. If you hadn't gone to collect lunch, it would have taken out you and your Landrover."

Silliest moment

Silly? Moi? Far too many to mention.

I once saw the legendary Sunderland goalkeeper, Jim Montgomery, literally poo his pants in the Clock End goal at Highbury. It was either 1969 or a bit later and Sunderland were playing in light blue, which did not help poor Jim's visual appeal one bit and we roared with laughter. Arsenal won. Would you cheerfully recall a gloriously embarrassing moment from either your own glittering military career, or that of someone else?

Summer of 1982, about the time of the Falklands War (we didn't get an invite to that tour either). It was Friday morning the last morning of this particular exercise on Soltau Training Area on the North German Plain. It was the finale of the exercise. Our reconnaissance battlegroup had as usual advanced to contact at the onset of hostilities, engaged the enemy and withdrawn in contact back to the front line, bringing the enemy with us toward the prepared armour / infantry / artillery battlegroups. The enemy wave had washed up against line of steel and spent its energy. Now we were into the counter-attack to push them back to the IGB.

I was commander of Two Bravo, the second Sultan Command Vehicle of B Squadron. We had control of the B Sqn Combat Team (because it was our turn not because there was anything amiss with Two Alpha: we were co-located and Bravo was the working CV). I was in control of the Combat Team Command Net.

15/19H Battlegroup was leading the divisional advance and B Squadron Combat Team was leading the battlegroup.

The advance is a lot more fun than the withdrawal in contact (remember, the British Army never retreats: neither does it break contact with the enemy until the time is right. If the recce screen lost sight of the enemy, the whole army would be blind) but it is also a lot more hectic. The advance was across some particularly bad ground and a number of vehicles became bogged and needed extraction. The Squadron Leader was in his Landrover parked nearby. He was running the net tactically and we were running it technically. I logged his broadcast to the troops reminding them that when we'd been here ten years previously in tanks, we'd almost lost a couple of Chieftains. The trains back to Paderborn were booked to start loading from the local sidings at noon and woe betide any vehicle commander and crew who were still bogged.

Tactical control of the combat team was difficult because of all the boggings getting in the way of orders, sitreps, fire missions, etc and tempers were getting fraught. My hands were flying as I fought to keep the net under control. I had the Combat Team Command Net working in my left ear and the Battlegroup Command Net, run by my colleagues in Command Troop, where I'd recently spent three wonderful years, on monitor in my right ear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware that the Squadron Leader was walking across to my CV. I picked up the pressel and started. "Hello all stations this is Two. Minimise, minimise. You are all talking over one another. Wait until the net is clear and think before you speak. Out."

Imagine my surprise when the voice of Command Troop's Regimental Signals Sergeant replied, in my left ear, "Hello Two this is Zero. There's nothing wrong with MY net. What seems to be the problem?"

Stunned, I looked round and found that the Squadron Leader had picked up a handset to talk to the Zero and had switched the box we were both working from to work Battlegroup instead of Combat Team and he had caused me the ultimate faux pas of broadcasting on the wrong means. I caught him sheepishly switching my box back to where it had been and trying to look like it wasn't him. He may have been a Major, and I may only have been a Lance Corporal, but he recognised my thousand yard stare for what it was. It so happened that I was days away from transferring out forever and he couldn't, and didn't touch me. He was more embarrassed than I was.

Who would you say is the person who has inspired you most?

My mother. My father was a Co Durham coal miner. Not having been allowed to play in the 1939 - 45 European and South East Asia Tours, but coming within an ace of losing an arm down the mine anyway, after the war he took a job in South America. To cut a long story short (Why? Doesn't usually stop you. Ed) she essentially brought me up alone. She was a bloody-minded individual and is the only person who ever inspired me.

Heroes and villains. Give us a couple of each, and why.

Heroes:

Anyone who gave his all in combat to fight for what he believed in.

The 1973 FA Cup winning Sunderland AFC team.

Anyone who cares passionately enough about his work or hobby to put in more effort than I do.

Villains:

Politicians

Anyone who badmouths people without having been in their shoes.

Favourite tank? The old chestnut. You can pick as many as you like.

Tiger 1E. The original mammoth tank as we think of it.

Panther. Doesn't get enough recognition for being better at everything than Tiger apart from armour penetration at short range.

Chieftain. It may have had its design faults (engine!) but it's a sexy beast.

Scorpion. Okay, okay it isn't a tank, it's a tracked armoured car. One of the last real gunner's tanks where gunnery was an art not a matter of point and click. And also where I lived for years.

Ferret Scout Car. Okay, it isn't a tank either ... but it's the best ride you'll ever have.

I could go on like this all day. Let's face it, tanks are just sexy.

If you ever dip your toe in the murky pond of MV ownership, what would you have?

My first buy would certainly be a Ferret. Then there'd have to be a CVR(T).

I like Sultan but I think Spartan is cool.

What is your view on re-enactors in general and the side issue of wearing medals and rank badges?

I understand where they are coming from and if they put in the hard work, who am I to criticise?

Do you find the German re-enactors distasteful?

Not at all. I was pleasantly surprised at the Tank Museum (June 2007) to see German re-enactors who were representing the Wehrmacht of 1944 and were wearing the correct, frankly awful 1943 pattern clothing, even though the pre-1940 uniform was much better quality and better cut. Why cannot Hollywood manage this?

Would you ever do it??

If you'd asked me 30 - 40 years ago I'd have said yes, but I've been there and done that and been paid for it and now I'd look stupid in the uniform of a grunt.

About 1988, Spielberg was making Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. One scene required hundreds and hundreds of extras to be German storm troopers to burn and ravage Berlin. He wanted people with military bearing who could be controlled in a military fashion. Who better to ask than the Army? One first Thursday of the month, as usual, there was a Sergeants Mess meeting. The Regimental Sergeant Major, mess president, went through the usual procedures and got to Any Other Business. He asked for volunteers to be storm troopers, names to him after the meeting. Those selected would get £40.00 cash in hand for a night's work. (A Military Accountant Programmer Sergeant got £33.00 gross per day before tax, etc.)

We got a form to take to the garrison tailor complete and return. We were to be measured for Marschstieffel, Stahlhelm and all the Feldgrau so that on the night we could walk onto the site, pick up the uniform that had been allocated, change and walk onto the set.

We'd be bussed to Pinewood after duties one day and we'd be back at our desk for First Parade the next.

Cometh the day and we were all called to the garrison gymnasium. Spielberg had only had the whole of UKLF volunteer. The demographics of our unit were all wrong (too old ... I mean senior) so we were deselected. I haven't spoken to Spielberg since.

Would you ever consider being a Chelsea Pensioner?

Without a second's hesitation. It isn't likely to happen as the entrance requirements are very strict, places are limited and I am blessed with not needing such assistance.

Worst/most useless piece of British army issue kit

From my time? I am struggling to think of anything. We just got on and did the job professionally with the equipment we had. The C13 was the main vehicle radio during my early years. Being HF it gave increased range during the daytime at a time when the Recce Screen was spread ever more thinly across the divisional frontage. But being HF it was worse than useless after sunset and the Ionosphere broke down due to the absence of solar radiation. But that was because it was an HF set. That's simply how HF is. As an HF radio, there was nothing particularly wring with the C13. Think about Operation Market Garden and how the radios were not suited to the ground. In fact the entire Larkspur range was on its last legs when I joined, but I have to admit, this old technology delivered what it promised. Just not enough for what was needed.

I might list the SA80. As an RAC crewman, my personal weapon was the Sterling sub-machine gun, but as a section rifleman in Northern Ireland, I got a sexy SLR, and as a representative of the Regiment in shooting competitions, I grew to be very handy with both. As I left the army, the SA80 was coming into service. My unit (RAPC Worthy Down) was scheduled never to receive the SA80 until the MOD realised that half the people in Worthy Down were visitors who would never have been trained on SLR and they relented.

A conversion to SA80 course came up. I had represented RAPC at the CORPSAAM competitions for a number of years and was allowed to attend this course, even though I was only some six months from leaving.

I actually enjoyed the SA80 and thought it a very clever and well-designed weapon, even though my own suffered a firing-pin failure during the course. The SA80 had enough bad press prior to its conversion to SA80A2. It doesn't need me to add to it, especially when I quite liked it. Preferred the SLR as an elephant gun though.

How useful are forums like HMVF and ARSSE???

HMVF is clearly a Godsend to its community and I get some simple joy out of reading it. I also enjoy being able to pass on whatever skills, details, etc that I can.

ARRSE was always going to happen. It seems the army would have liked to keep a lid on communication and information as it always had, but it has been adult enough to accept that if ARRSE didn't exist and the army didn't tolerate it, something else would. ARRSE and MOD seem to have a mutual respect for each other's needs and it works.

As a result of ARRSE I have found a slack handful of friends I hadn't seen in decades. Also as a result of ARRSE I am currently proof-reading an ex-tankie's memoirs before it goes to the publisher very soon. Sadly, it didn't get to me in time to sort out the grammar and the typos and my remit is very restrictive. It's still a cracking read. It's called Armoured Farmer A Tankie's Tales 1975 - 1990.

Can you ever see yourself joining the Order of the Pink Cushion?

Not unless I win the Lottery. I enjoyed driving and I would enjoy ownership but maintenance is, for me sadly, a necessary evil.

What's more likely - Jack ACTUALLY providing the dancing girls or Sunderland playing in Europe?

Sunderland playing in Europe. I well remember the 73 - 74 season and playing in the European Cup-Winners' Cup. Under the nice Mr Keane, I can see us in the UEFA Cup within five years. We only missed out by a place and a point or two in 2000 and 2001 and by being beaten by Millwall in the FA Cup Semi Final at Old Trafford on 04/04/04 when Man U and Arsenal met in the other semi.

Jack is at the bar - holding folding. What is your preferred tipple?

I'd ask for a cold bottle of Dog and a small glass. That's Newcastle Brown Ale, aka "Walk The Dog" (Ah'm jist gannin' oot tae walk the dog, pet) to the uninitiated. There are two good things to come out of Newcastle: the Brown Ale and the train to Sunderland. Remember, the Romans built a wall along the north bank of the Tyne to keep the Geordies out of the known universe.

In polite company I'd plump for a good white wine. I like Veuvray from France or any German rocket fuel. I'd tolerate a mellow red if I have to to go with the meat.

15/19H returned to the UK from Northern Ireland in May 1976. It was a long, hot, dry summer and the NAAFI at Aliwal Barracks, Tidworth could not order enough Dog to satisfy a regiment of Northumberland / Durham miners' sons. By 2100 hrs nightly, the supply of Dog (in cans, which was all we could get outside of our homeland in those days, and it tasted foul, but better than southern shandy) would run out. Rather than resort to southern shandy, some of us took to embracing the Southwest totally and we drank rounds of 2-litre bottles of cider. Mmm yes.

In Germany we could only get Dog in the NAAFI (see comment above about Dog out of cans). If we wanted to set foot off camp (where there were young ladies) we had to indulge in the German taste. Sadly, that meant Pilsener. Paderborner in particular. No thanks. Besides, I cut a quite distinctive figure on my motorbike in jackboots and did not want to give the German Civilian Police any excuses, so I drank Coke by the half-litre.

I recently underwent an operation to clear poly-infested sinuses. Sadly, during the course of this I discovered that I had drunk my lifetime's supply of alcohol (truth be told I probably got there by the age of 22) and any attempt to drink more had unfortunate consequences on my nose, which had developed an intolerance to any alcohol.

Pint of Coke, please.