What Does This Button Do?. Bruce Dickinson
six months before my finals had decided to catch up on the previous two-and-half-years of academic insufficiency.
With no wasted effort, I got a Desmond, a Tutu, or, more correctly, a second-class honours, lower division.
By the end of the exams I was starting to imagine that I was almost getting the hang of this academic business. My brain was creacking in all the right places, and I began to wonder if all this activity might have created some permanent impact.
I finished my last exam before lunch. I took a deep breath as I turned my back on the great white-fronted main building on the Mile End Road. I took the 277 bus down to the Greenwich foot tunnel and walked under the River Thames to the old wharves that lay on the south of the river. Wood Wharf Studios was a rehearsal room with a panoramic view of the water, but for today my destination was the small portable shed around the back.
Head still buzzing from cabinet papers about Munich, appeasement and the fall of France to the Nazis, I opened the studio door. It was 1979. I was 20 years old and I was about to start singing full-time with Samson.
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