Probably the only one without (human) blood on their hands is the farmer's wife who knocks up a beef stew while we await our turn at the firing range. Even the old duffer at the gun club tells a story of shooting an Egyptian policeman in the head. It's advice that we strictly adhere to, but it's clear that pretty much everyone involved has seen action. As the man says: "Don't ask us how many people we've killed and don't ask us what it's like to take a human life. It's the usual scenario: a bunch of ex-army sorts running corporate days for people who like to fire guns but aren't keen on the whole blood and death aspect. As the identikit short angry man announces at the briefing: "We don't do political correctness." They certainly don't, and over the course of the day we're subjected to concepts and language rarely heard outside the confines of a 70s sitcom. It's just over an hour out of London, but it might as well be another century.
I'm In A Field near Ipswich surrounded by cold-blooded killers.
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