What Does This Button Do?

by Bruce Dickinson

  On TV was World Cup cricket. It was not going well for England. This, I thought, was the symbolic moment to take a shit, in concert with our batsmen. I read the instructions, mixed up a couple of sachets in water of the dreaded Movicol, drank it and waited. Nothing moved; not even the England spinners could get any movement out of me. I read further into the instructions. It had been 10 days since I had moved even a rabbit dropping: ‘If this does not work, it may be caused by faecal impaction.’

  Well, I didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded like a Hollywood film intro about an asteroid: ‘Faecal impact . . .’ The thought of an asteroid coming out of my bum filled me with trepidation.

  I reached for Wikipedia. I typed ‘faecal impaction’. There in all its horrific glory was the awful truth. My poo had turned to concrete, and in letters that should have been brightly illuminated in red, it gave the worrying caution ‘in some cases it may be necessary to manually manipulate the stool’.

  I realised we were not talking about the three-legged variety. I had overdosed on Movicol and the movie still hadn’t happened. I covered the floor of the loo with newspaper and set about trying to put my fingers in my bum to wiggle the bollard that was wedged inside. Had I been a chimpanzee, life would have been easier. I wandered round the kitchen looking for implements that might work better – a corkscrew, for example, but I thought it best not to.

  Finally, after wiggling whatever it was while squatting, the cricket on in the background, I finally gave in, sat on the loo and made some awful noises. I can’t imagine the pain of birth but, with all respect to womankind, my internal cricket ball finally exited and I feared that most of my anus had gone with it.

  The body is made of sterner stuff, though, and for the next 10 minutes I basically expelled what looked like a bag of lemons. They were Star Trek lemons really: ‘Lemons, Jim, but not as we know them.’

  Three days later, I drove a car to the garage for maintenance. I caught the train home – Watford Junction to Euston. In my diary is recorded: ‘Croissant and latte.’ I ordered the croissant at the station and dipped it in my latte so it was soggy. Victory starts with one small step.

  Three days after that, I managed noodles and a salad. It took three hours to eat, but I bloody well did it. As I finished, Mick Jagger walked past the window of the café on the King’s Road. I’m nearly as skinny as you, I grinned to myself.

  Next day, I ate steak and vegetables. On 15 March I ate a full meal and could actually taste some of it.

  On the other hand, I looked like a semi-starved member of the Village People. Goodbye moustache. My immune system was still flat on the floor; my T cells had left the building. The rest of my blood was remarkably good.

  Maiden played the album to the label – Warner – on 2 April, and I was there, to prove that I was alive and kicking. I went for a break to Lanzarote for 10 days. On 10 April I could stand it no longer and I tried to sing in the shower. It was awful. There was no vocal control; it just sounded like a cow bellowing. I tried not to panic. I was only a month out of treatment. Jan, my ENT doctor, said, ‘Don’t even think about singing till November.’ Maybe not November, I thought – but at least the end of September.

  There is an epidemic of head and neck cancers caused by HPV. The cervical cancer risk is well known and Pap screening is highly effective, but there is no equivalent test for oral cancer.

  Cases of HPV oral cancer will rise by 80 to 100 per cent, and will overtake cervical cancer in the near future. It is an epidemic that is largely ignored by the press, who often prefer to pillory its victims with shame and innuendo in a way people would find outrageous were it to be inflicted on women, victims of exactly the same cancer.

  Anyone from taxi drivers and musicians to pilots, diplomats, doctors and engineers – basically any male who has not lived inside a plastic bag – can be struck by this disease. There is a need for research, education and early detection. This is a highly curable cancer.

  The following week, I went to speak at a dinner for Airbus lawyers. I sat next to a charming Canadian father of three in his early forties. His first question: ‘How’s your saliva?’

  There was a look in his eye. ‘You too?’

  I had been seeing Dr Sibtain every two weeks post-treatment, and he was delighted by my bouncing back. When I was first diagnosed I had run up four flights of stairs rather than take the lift. I took great delight in doing it again one month after treatment. It was worth it to see the grin on his face.

  He warned me that the scan to access my results could not take place for around three months.

  ‘The radiation will still be active,’ he said, ‘so I might just end up with loads of red blobs.’

  On 13 May I went in for the scan. Two days later, I had the most nervous day of my life.

  I was clear. ‘Total clinical response’. I felt dizzy with shock. I would live, I read through the report. There was a bit towards the end that I did not quite understand: ‘What’s this about an anatomical anomaly?’

  Amen started to chuckle. ‘It means . . . that you used to be a fish.’

  Slowly, the world came back to life in all its glory, or otherwise.

  I had my airline medical reinstated after a stiff examination. The senior doctor commented, ‘I can’t find anything wrong with him.’ (Apart from gills and a tail, of course.)

  The hoops to get back in the left seat appeared: dangerous goods, security, technical refresher training, fire and smoke training, first aid and, finally, back in the simulator for a six-monthly check.

  I had been flying the Fokker for the sheer joy of it. On 10 July I was back flying an airliner from Cardiff to Milan Malpensa. It was a ‘proving flight’ for the Maltese authorities. I was back in business.

  Triplane display flying was sadly out of the question. I had to renew my display licence and practise with the team, and it was already the middle of the display season.

  The US Federal Aviation Administration sent me a very nice letter asking me for my medical certificate back. Unlike the UK, which merely suspended it, the FAA took it away as soon as I notified them about the cancer treatment.

  The Maiden PR machine was in full swing. I flew to the jungles of Mexico to do a photoshoot. I had a six-pack courtesy of radiation; I don’t recommend it as a weight-loss programme. I reprised the ‘hooligan in a loincloth with a stick’ shot from the Ross Halfin Bahamas shoot years earlier, and some of the photos looked amazing.

  I was chartered by the label for a Bruce Air special, taking a posse of fans and media to Paris. We flew to Guillaume Tell Studio and I talked them through the album. It was great to get behind the wheel in the sky, but also to have my feet on the ground, treading the boards and talking music.

  The 747 project was back on. Air Atlanta Icelandic were now negotiating with Iron Maiden management, and we had a couple of other carriers quote for the tour. I went on a press junket to the USA and Canada. The album had been very well received and, of course, everyone wanted to know about the whys and wherefores of my cancer, all contributing to the tumour mill. Some journalists attempted some kind of responsible understanding; others just decided to take a vulgar, cheap shot.

  I was flying but I still wasn’t singing. Back in my kitchen, I regarded the cutlery drawer and the rattling it made with some suspicion. The house was deserted and I paced around. It was past September, and maybe, just maybe, some sound might emerge from my voice that did not mimic the cutlery drawer.

  I tried ‘If Eternity Should Fail’. It was originally written for a future solo album, but was decanted into Iron Maiden. It was one of the last things I had sung before I got sick; in fact, I might have been growing the tumour even as I was singing the demo.

  I couldn’t believe the result. The top notes were there. Actually they seemed to be purer than before. The low mid-range of my voice was unreliable, and certain vowel sounds – ‘ee’, for example – were quite uncontrolled in pitch. My falsetto was also under less control, although the howling banshee
wail was still in evidence.

  Over the next few weeks and months I tried to make sense of it all. I put myself in vocal rehab and theorised as to why things had changed around. We were due to start the tour in February, and rehearsals were only three months away. Rod had made up for a lost year by booking a 72-date world tour.

  ‘I love your confidence in me, but what if I sing like a bag of spanners?’

  There’s no real answer to that, of course. I tried to analyse what I had, and what I had lost – at least temporarily. My theory was that after the tumour had gone, the remaining surface of my tongue had changed shape. Think of a thick head on a pint of Guinness. Leave it alone and the bubbles beneath the surface slowly burst, leaving the head with a bad case of subsidence. My bubbles were a golf-ball sized tumour.

  The tongue is instrumental in forming complex vowel sounds, and we spend our childhood learning to speak and training it. Singing adds an extra layer of complexity. Dr Sibtain was correct about my larynx, which was seemingly unaffected. The note generator was intact, but the quality of the end product is heavily influenced by the muscle tone and spaces in the chest, head and neck cavities. I made a plan for rehearsals: I would sing a little then leave a few good days’ rest in the build-up to the band practice.

  The time from being given the all-clear to starting singing five days a week would be only eight months. Talk about cutting things fine.

  I set about doing what I could on the other big project – learning to fly the 747. Only one big problem: we didn’t have one anymore. Two months before we were about to go on tour, Air Atlanta Icelandic lost permission to use the plane allocated for us, and kindly sent back our deposit. The Maiden office was in a tailspin. I got on a plane and went to Iceland. Face to face was the only way to find out what was going on.

  I met the CEO and the head of commercial. We got on very well and they explained their predicament. The only 747 they could guarantee would have to be flown to the USA to be scrapped two days after the show at Donington.

  Air Atlanta Icelandic were in the process of buying two much younger ex-Air France machines, but the deal was not yet sealed. Rather than break a promise, they preferred to cancel the deal. I suggested we use the ‘scrapper’ only up till Donington. We would pay to ferry it to its grave, where the engines would be kept, as they were in very good shape. The CEO said he would put it to the owner of the aircraft. I left and had a very alcoholic meal with the commercial director, and flew back the next day.

  When I landed, there was a text message: ‘You have a deal’.

  Three days later I got another one: ‘Air France deal done. All back to normal’.

  Breathe a big sigh of relief and get back to the rest of the planet.

  I flew some disabled veterans in simulators for Help for Heroes, and I returned to Sarajevo, where the Bosnians were putting the finishing touches to a very emotional documentary they had been making about the trip I did over 20 years ago. I had missed the twentieth anniversary because of my cancer treatment, but I wanted to help them with some follow-up footage and an interview.

  It was hard to recognise the place at times, then suddenly a piece would snap into place and the jigsaw of memories would return.

  In order to fly the 747 I had to get a job with Air Atlanta Icelandic as a captain, so I sat at home with my laptop and the manual for the 747. I completed the groundschool course and sat the final exams – all good. The next phase was the simulator.

  It was winter of 2015. I had run myself ragged. I caught a cold. Actually, I was delighted. My immune system worked as advertised. The only very strange thing was that my mucus membranes were not yet in fully working order. Having a cold without blowing your nose is quite an odd experience.

  How different this Christmas was to the one a year previously. I was blessed to be here and, better than that, I felt alive.

  Putting on a bit of weight was the name of the game, but I wouldn’t be doing it by eating all my favourite puddings. While most of my taste buds were playing ball, the ones that detected sweetness had been severely impaired by the radiation. As the man who ate the Toblerone from the minibar and who loved to pig out on caramel sauce and Crunchie bars, this was, initially, a blow to morale.

  After a few months the memory still remained, but the desire to eat sugar had virtually vanished. An unintended consequence was an acute awareness of how awful many of the ‘foods’ (or rather, products) were that I had chomped my way through in years past.

  The realisation that ‘flavour’ was often just added sugar was a great revelation. I took solace in the fact that vegetables, meat and dairy tasted absolutely 100 per cent.

  Beer was a worry. I had designed Trooper with fully operational taste buds. How would it taste, and how would I design future brews with an impaired sense of sweetness?

  I took inspiration from the chef who had no sense of smell. There are many other complex flavours and aromas to experiment with in beer, not just sugar. The first test of this was the design of our new beer, Red ’N’ Black, an Imperial stout/porter. Martyn Weeks, the master brewer, and I sat down and painted the taste of the beer with a palette of existing brews. I was, I freely confess, nervous. I realised that I could detect sweetness but just couldn’t taste it. Nevertheless, Martyn and I agreed on all aspects of the brew. In fact, I was inspired to take a new look at beer design, and take a more aromatic approach. The subtleties of texture, bitterness and a lingering finish in the note took on ever-greater importance. Thankfully, my old favourite, Fuller’s ESB, never failed.

  Drinking beer, of course, is something that should be done a long way from aircraft simulators or motor cars.

  No sooner had the New Year passed than I found myself turning up to the newly built British Airways training centre on a freezing, windy 2 January.

  What a rollercoaster of a year. Looking back further, what a rollercoaster of a life. From the ups and downs of school and university to the longest and fastest theme-park-ride drop ever – being in Iron Maiden.

  I have often been asked, ‘Would you have changed anything?’ The answer is a simple no. A different and better question is, ‘Have you made any mistakes?’ And the answer to that one is equally easy – loads of them.

  Learning to sing and perform is trial by error and fire. Training to fly can be done in a simulator. Learning to be an aviator can only be done with experience, and experience comes with mistakes built into its fabric.

  So now I met one of my 747 mentors. He took me off to one side in a corner of the coffee room before my simulator partner showed up.

  ‘How is your saliva after treatment?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t believe it – another ‘you too’ moment. We spent 20 minutes discussing teeth, jawbones, saliva and his love of fine Scotch whisky and fast motor cars. His treatment was somewhat more brutal than mine because the technology was not so advanced 15 years previously as to be able to spare his parotid glands from extinction.

  Here we were, though, and we soon got onto more important things – like a 400-ton flying machine with a fuel capacity of 170,000 kilograms that would soon be under the command of yours truly.

  What an impossible dream for a kid from Worksop who failed physics O level and took three goes to get O level maths.

  Somewhere my old grandfather Austin is drinking a beer with my godfather Flight Sergeant John Booker, and they are probably adding up the amount of money they spent on plastic aeroplanes between them. Nothing in childhood is ever wasted.

  The same childlike thrill came over me when I sat in the 747 simulator for the first time. All checks complete and the first officer briefed, I turned to the instructor with a grin.

  ‘What does this button do?’

  Photos Section

  Me, aged 15, with awful anorak.

  Uncle John, not on holiday in Malta.

  Early efforts at sarcasm.

  Early predictions of rock rebellion.

  Samson playing loud when wrecked. Thunderstick, Chris Ay
lmer, Paul Samson and yours truly.

  © Phil E. Neumann

  Samson’s last gig at Reading. No Thunderstick. Hours before the Maiden meeting.

  © Phil E. Neumann

  I explain the aerodynamics of this plastic goose to Clive Burr. I’m in Samson, he’s in Maiden.

  © Phil E. Neumann

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ Doing my best Ian Gillan impression onstage at the Marquee in Soho.

  © Rob Grain

  Early fruit and vegetable shot. From left to right: Adrian Smith, me, Steve Harris, Clive Burr and Dave Murray.

  © Ross Halfin

  Rod Smallwood in his element.

  © Ross Halfin

  Matching hair and trousers.

  © Ross Halfin

  First ant into space.

  © Ross Halfin

  Singlehandedly holding up the Russian airforce.

  © Ross Halfin

  He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy!

  © Ross Halfin

  © John McMurtrie

  © Simon Fowler

  All in the best possible taste.

  © Tony Mottram

  © Ross Halfin

  Giving the finger to the masses on the Somewhere Back In Time tour.

  © Ross Halfin

  Yogic flying.

  © Ross Halfin

  Brownbeard. Backstage and bonkers.

  © Ross Halfin

  That’s me wearing the mask (I’m the one on the left).

  © John McMurtrie

  The band, management and our very own Buddha! Left to right: Steve Harris, Nicko McBrain, me, Rod Smallwood, Janick Gers, Dave Murray and Andy Taylor.

  © Ross Halfin