And take the kite to heaven and back!

Well, not quite - but I took the kite up for a second time on Sunday to an eye watering launch from a new winch driver.

Normally the old crate rotates smoothly as I move through 45-50 Knots and I ease her into a steady climb, with best climb of 45 degrees and about 60 knots.
It is a process which is gentlemanly, serene and you carve your path skywards in an arc that would make Darcy Bussel smile.

Not this time.

Massive cable snatch and I'm doing 50 knots on the ground run.
She desperately pulls at me as I rotate. 65 Knots.
Main climb - 70knots and rising fast. Controls feeling heavy
300 feet - 80 knots - still accelerating. Now overspeed. Normal drill is to ease her forward to drop the torque on the engine. I do so - she accelerates to 90 knots.
Now on the edge of the safe envelope, wing struts physically groaning.

Sorry chaps, this won’t do at all.

Pull emergency cable break, nose forward to flying speed, the G load drops off completely and the detritus lying around the glider floats to the top of the canopy as for a brief moment the glider and I are in free fall - when the training kicks in - Approach speed, trim, look out, location - select safe field prep for rough landing.
Feels like 500 feet and not enough runway ahead. Glance at the altimeter confirms 500 feet, turn down wind, abbreviated circuit - to land short in diamond at the end of the grass run.
Turbulent approach, some curl over from the fields - but a gentle float and hold off and a short ground run.

All this in under a minute.

The recovery cart trundles over as I sit with the lid open, taking in the summer's afternoon.

'Bit robust was it?' said the dear girl on the cart.
'Somewhat - I think the winchie has had too many weetabix. I shall radio him in good time and feedback that it was a little brisk.'

On a lighter note - the Sultry Journalist got a bit of aviating in.

Remember - human life is split between those who fly, and those who wish they could.

Now you see why birds sing…?

And this my dear....

The presence of a lady visitor this weekend means I will have apply some heavy duty domestic engineering.
Bins Empty - check.
Heads clean enough so that the Virgin Mary would be proud to park breakfast there - check.
Battleships in the Bathroom removed - check.
Fizz on ice - check.
Lodger bribed to make herself and dog scarce - check.
Extensive collection of Indonesian Gentleman's Pictorials in loft - check.
Record collection nonchalantly yet carfeully displayed - check.
Strategic pail of water placed just so (Let me get you out of those wet clothes) - check.
Industrial floor adhesive - check.

You can picture it now:
And this my dear - is the eastern conservatory and arboretum. I'm afraid house rules insist upon nudity. You may find it quite 'liberating'.

Withdrawal Symptoms

It is often the absence of something which shows one just how dependant one has become.
Currently - my work email gateway is down and I am going stir crazy. I can't mail my other offices, family, suppliers, contractors, or chums.
The upside is that I can focus all my creative talents to my work.

Oh Joy.

This is why we have Trident

Fez Doff to theo.

Let's make Sandwiches

You Are a Club Sandwich

You are have a big personality. It's hard for anyone to ignore you! You dream big. You think big. And you eat big. Some people consider you high maintenance, but you just know what you want... and when you want it. Your best friend: The Tuna Fish Sandwich Your mortal enemy: The Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

What Kind of Sandwich Are You?

Warning on Wine bottles

I'm with St Boris of Henley on this.
Despite my state last night and how I feel this morning. I am adult enough to know it was all my fault and that no nannying from the government would have made any difference.

I do feel this is the augur of things to come. There is a fundamental shift in the liberties of the individual that has been sold to the public as 'for it's own good'.

Our movements are tracked, monitored and we will be charged for it.

Our money now belongs to Gordo and it is his munificence alone which allows us to spend it on what his grandees think is safe for us to consume.

We are assets of the state, and woe betide if we care not for those assets.

Our liberty is at the sufferance of the state, and it can be removed at any time without warning - and it's agents can enter our homes at will and detain us on suspicion alone.

The infrastructure of oppression has been slowly built up around us - how long until we need the governments permission to go to the seaside? It will be sold as our carbon ration - but how different is it in outcome to movement restrictions over the good old Soviets?

We were lulled into a warm blanket of social justice by Blair - and we awake under the jackboot of Brown.

Be very, very afraid.

Lessons from T'North

Life's rich tapestry has ways of teaching you little lessons. They normally come when you are off your guard and catch you quite unawares. After all - does nemesis not always follow hubris?

1. Human Resources.
Try what you will - it is the innate programming of HR to seek to discombobulate one's wits to the extent you let slip juicy nuggets of information. Duplicity is their nature - which is why they are always depicted as cats.
Even if they are being pleasant - they will ply one with drink anyway if nothing else to see what happens.

2. Electric Telephones.
A fool and his phone are always attached. Never a good idea if one is suffering from any degree of discombobulation howsoever caused. Do not make telephone calls, especially not where a degree of sensitivity or circumspection is required. You will regret it.

3. Breakfast.
Always eat hearty when you can - especially before going into action. If you see the Chief Executive munching his brekky, do not speak to him. Or make eye contact.
(Oh gosh sir, yor eg is all runy)

I have fallen foul of lessons 1 and 2. Fortunately my judgement was intact enough to avoid lesson 3.

The clever souls here in York sell Alka Seltzer in Ye Olde Staffe Shoppe.

Maggie

As you know I think she was a rather splendid lass.
Continuing the post from across on at the Lefty Journalist

Three Things good about Maggie:

1.) Broke the Union strangehold on industry
2.) Won the Cold War with The Great Communicator
3.) Turned us from an economy worse than Greece in 1979 - to the 4th largest in the world....

Dive in chaps.....

PS: Sigismund - is the 88 HCDB still drinking well? Failing that Alphonses' Gen XIX would be a treat.....

My 100th Post.

This.

Fez doffed at Poor Little Greek Chap for providing me suitable material for my Century Post.

A worrying trend

As my more regular readership are aware - I have taken in a lodger. She is a delightful little ray of sunshine - and like a butterfly - needs no excuses.
Up until very recently chez-chap has been a bit of a building site. No sooner had I resolved the issues with that, when she - a damsel in distress and a chum - required lodgings for her and the dog (you've seen what he looks like).

Now, I am a laid back sort of cove. I am slow to ire and I bear the hardships of life with a stoical grimace of a norm. But having someone else in one's abode does place restrictions - and one has to accommodate people in the name of harmony. However up with some things I will not put.

I don't mind a dog the size of a car slobbering everywhere and whining at my door at 2 am.

I don't mind all the kitchen utensils being rearranged to allow her things into the drawers.

I don't mind the cupboards filling not with the scented goods of Araby or the Levante - but instant mash and the like.

I don't mind someone moving in then going to Ibiza straight afterwards leaving their things everywhere.

I don't mind not being able to pad about the place in my glory.

I don't mind having to make arrangements for privacy should my caddish ways extend to inviting Lady Visitors (fat chance) over to inspect the finer points of my record collection and swap tasting notes on the latest batch of ready Burgundy (Really my dear, is that the time? And I cannot drive -I insist you stay....)

I don't mind the stark clean modernist lines of my bathroom vanishing under a deluge of bottles unguents, potions and sanitary hardware.

I even can live with the prospect of the rails and radiators festooning themselves with ladies underthings. (Feel free to insert your own perversion here)

What I do mind is this.
Spotted - with the large double pallet worth of unstowed dunnage living in my lounge space between sitting area and record wall - a Karaoke Machine.

Would it be cruel to take the fuse out, thereby rendering it mysteriously inoperable, yet undamaged with conscience clear?

Her good, my amusement. Or rather, sanity.

Bread and Circuses

This has got me very annoyed..... it smacks of republicanism at it's most odious.

We could celebrate:

St George's Day (Where George saved the world)
Trafalgar Day (Where Nelson saved the world)
Waterloo Day (Where We Saved the world)
Armistice Day (Where we saved the world)
Battle of Britain Day (Where we saved the world)
D-Day (Where we saved the world)
VE Day (Where we saved the world)
VJ Day (Where the Americans saved the world, but it was our idea)

But the idea of us celebrating an achievement like this doesn't appeal to them, as it might make someone who was descended from those we saved the world from, feel bad about trying to have it their way - or the smack of us wanting a bit of gratitute for expending the flower of three generations on the field whislt bankrupting ourselves for fifty years - and it is important that we feel bad about saving the world, as we sould have done it by diversity outreach or inclusivity seminars.

So instead, lets create a new one - shall we call 'National Diversity Day'. Everyone except the dull white, middle class, middle aged and balding tax payers gets a day off.
A parade, extra benefits for all those attending!
Red Ken gets to stand at a podium and floats celebrating diversity trundle past him while he takes the salute.

It's one short step to having ICBMs on trucks, thousands of tanks and hordes of outreach coordinators goosestepping past him.

Go away and make something work for once you pointless bunch of failed social workers and human rights laywers.

Olympic Logo

As you know the 'brand' has been released. I can't be bothered to reproduce it, as it is already speading across the blogoshpere like crabs in a convent.
It needs a phrase. Please select one of those below - and send it to the chimps running the show.

- Car Crash
- Stench of Death
- Failure writ large
- Camel vs Horse
- Ship of Fools
- Hubristic waste of money in the grand style of kelptocracies and other personality cult politics.
- All of the above.

I have seen Primary school collages depicting Guernica looking better.

Le Weekend Pt II - or Hullo Clouds...Hullo Sky...

As you, dear reader know, I am learning to fly. Or rather - glide.

Gliding is to flying as sailing is to power-boating. Any idiot can (an does) charge about the Solent with a bloody great engine and cause all sorts of mayhem. Sailing involves harnessing nature in a genteel battle of man versus elements to man's advantage - with a fair degree of aplomb and, well, civility. Safe in the knowledge of our credentials as thus - us 'rag and stick' types bimble about at a third of the speed of power boaters but without the smell and diesel fumes.


Such it is with gliding.


Any fool can burn 100 octane (yum) and get from A to B at whim.

But to be pinged up to a scrimby 1100 feet on a giant rubber band and then to harness the nature and her atmosphere to remain aloft without any source of power takes finesse.

As part of having the joy of using a cheap aeroplane from the club I am obliged to do my duty and spend a day per month working airside. This involves standing on a grass runway with a first aid trailer, a 1950's bus and a couple of radios running an airfield for a morning.

As the sun shone bright in Cambridgeshire today and my duty called I spent the morning singeing myself in a field with the world and his wife launching aeroplanes from a double winch and two tug aeroplanes pulling people skyward to slip the surly bonds.

Lots of sunshine.

Atmospherics, though, dictated that despite the sunny weather it was not terribly thermic. I shall not drone on about the intricacies of gliding weather. Suffice to say that the morning was 'blue'. In ground speak - it was sunny, but if there were thermals, they were not being indicated by cumulus. Cloud Spotters check here


So for my shift, all the regular sky-gods launched and came home again shortly afterwards as the lava-lampesque bubbles of lift were not happening.

Therefore my morning was lots of take offs and landings and lots of time talking to tugs, winches, pilots and plenty of tango-alpha-charlie speak.

I clocked off and baton passed to my oppo for the afternoon. Sent a runner to the office for a bottle of juice and a BLT and pondered my fate.

My next grade in this course of events requires minimums.

A minimum 50 solo flights.
A minimum of two flights of at least 30 minutes from a winch launch
A minimum of one one hour flight for my cross country licence.... plus other things.

Chief thing was I need numbers, and I was expecting to do three to five circuits and build them numbers.
Come 14.00, I was off shift and ready to aviate. Cable and winch issues delayed me further.
Twenty minutes sitting and sweltering finally bore fruit and it was my turn to fly.

It was a robust 2 G launch, very nearly overspeeding and she tried to over-rotate (lethal).


A bit of hunting through 800 feet, but by 1100, I had all I was going to get off the launch and ejected the cable and went hunting.
Being fresh and untired, my flying was accurate, and I was able to concentrate of lift hunting. I found it....just over the wood yards at 900'. It was only a knot, but low down - and these things accelerate as the height goes up.


Accurate flying meant that I could centre in the strongest lift - which grew to a full three knots by 2000 feet.


I held it until she became ragged at about 3600' on the upwind edge of a large cumulus. Cloud base was variable - and I had that magic glimpse of a cloud side on as I banked away up wind to enjoy my height and see if there was more lift to be had.


A good twenty minutes pootling around and I needed another climb.


Joined a chum in a club glider who was sniffing around at about 1500 under a flat bottomed cloud. Soon we were circling each other like a pair of vultures over a political career and climbing at a steady 4 knots....only to be joined by another three aircraft - all sharing the same tube of lift - we had our own gaggle.

I stayed up for over a hour in the end - a personal best.

One of the things that keeps me coming back to aviation is that despite the expense, work, and sheer frustration - it vanishes when you behold the sublime beauty of the sky.





Hullo Clouds

Le Weekend Pt I

I managed to get to Worcester on Saturday for my friend Jeff's 40th Birthday.
Jeff is an old biker chum - and I bumped into bods I knew from the days of when I charged about Ascot on a 125cc bike and was involved with MAG - Motorcycle Action Group. It had been at least 10 years since I had seen some of these fellows, and it was very pleasant - despite the 2 hour drive.
Jeff is a somewhat peculiar fellow. He has pretensions to sexual deviancy and transvestism - neither of which I hold against him
On arrival he greeted me - and I presented him with a bottle of Pink Champagne.
'PINK champagne?' he said.
'I was hoping it would match your shoes'.
He chuckled, then paused.
'Let me show you this.....' he said with a knowing leer....
He started to lead me up his garden path to cat calls and cheers from the assembled crowd - who resembled a Biker reunion.
We reached his garden shed with a door marked 'Gents'.
'Check this out!'
The door opened to a tool shed with a white net curtain covering the tools and a chemical cassette toilet - the sort one finds on narrow boats.
The shed not only had a chemical loo - but a large rusty wire brush on a small table, a drill with sanding attachment, several sheets of sandpaper and an old gas bottle resprayed and labelled 'Industrial-air-freshener.'
'Behold, My Shed!'
I paused as i beheld the magnificence laid before me.
'Cottaging for the home, Jeff.'
'Absolutely - with hi-grade cleansing materials.'
'I expect your gusset to be lemon fresh, old boy.'
'It will be.'
'Is it fully functioning ? The facilities, not your gusset of course.....'
'Absolutely!'
'I salute your temerity - and I give joy to you for your lavatorial ingenuity!'
'Beer?'
'Yes, well may as well get a head of pressure before one has to oblige this place.'
'Good man!'
He may be 40 - but Jeff is, at heart, still a schoolboy.

Just like the rest of us.

Today, I am free

It makes me sick when I work as hard as I do, knowing that today is Tax Freedom Day .

Fez-doff to The poor little greek boy for sharing this depressing moment.

I am going out to get spectacularly drunk to celebrate - anyone fancy coming?

Strategic Incompetence

On rare occasions one loses one's sang-froid. This manifests it self normally if one has been out of reach of the laudanum bottle for a while and the old juices start their crave and one's temper starts to fray.

My giving up tobacco probably contributes.

What frays my tether more than anything else is the idiotic getting in my way of slithering around like the stainless steel snake that I am and allowing me to create the appearance of effortless caddishness.
What good is the winning smile, the gleam in the eye and the softly spoken nugget of filth if it looks like one has been seen paddling like billio under the surface to achieve this grace like state of rakish charm?

It lets the side down, chaps, it lets the side down.

I recently had occasion to procure the services of a purveyor of plant blooms for delivery to addresses in London.
Not, I assure you, in some tawdry attempt to apologise for a crime - oh no - more, shall we say, to lay the ground work for the leading astray of a young lady unused as yet to the wiles of my dubious charms.
As my acquainted readers know - once the trap is set, there is no escape and the inexorable drive to depravity and moral turpitude is as inevitable as a French Air Traffic strike on a Bank Holiday.

One would naturally assume that as such an adventure is the very meat and drink to such an establishment - they would be well versed in the motives of such activities, and therefore their handling agents would be well versed in the necessary levels of alacrity and required prejudice to effect their chosen objectives.

Oh no.

Why, should I - the customer - have to chase these Cro-Magnon numbskulls to find out there has been a delivery failure?
This is modern Britain. I am old enough to remember the 'good old days' when everything was nationalised and customers were a nuisance and got in the way. You used to have chase up everyday and be treated with rudeness.
Now - I grant you these people were not rude, they were just incompetent. This I believe to be a factor of the fact we have too few unemployed in this country - but that is one for my economics editor to argue.

In the end. I despaired sufficiently to telephone them to ask them what they were about.

'Have the goods been delivered?' Asked after negotiating their switchboard
'No.'
'And at what point was I going to find this out?'
'Er………'
'And what were you going to do about it?'
'Er………'
'OK,' applying my knowledge of modern supply chains, 'have you got a failed POD or refusal note?'
'Yes sir'.
'And it says…..?'
'Not known at this address.'
Hmmm……thinks cross check details as subtly as possible without losing the initiative…..
'When'
'About 9.30 this morning'
'So five hours ago.'
'Sir.'
'Any redelivery attempts made?' Ye gods I am pulling teeth…..
'Errrr……..'
'Check the refusal record against the POD.'
'Yes sir at 13.00.'
'And? Apparently refused again. Wrong address.'.
'OK have you checked the Post code against the RM-PAF records.'
'No sir, hold on' (I hear some tapping)
'The address does verify, sir'.
'OK so we have a crisis of competence from either delivery or reception.'
'Errrr……...'
'Right - what I would like you to do is this. Update the Re-delivery. Set it to fresh batch. Not the ones that have been kicking around the back of the van all day.'
'Sir'
'OK now go to the delivery settings - and put it to FIRAV by 10.00 please.'
'Sir. Ok done that - but there is a surcharge for timed delivery.'
'Only if you haven't cocked up. You have and you will provide this to me for recompense for you failing to achieve your single stated aim - and the fact the address is about 175 yards from your door.'
'Sir.'
'OK. I would like a call as soon as the you have a verified POD from the Ship-To, ok?
'Errr……..'
'Correct answer is 'Yes sir, and we apologise for the inconvenience caused the staggering incompetence of my organisation. It is, afterall your job to deliver flowers. I pay you to go to an adress not 175 yards from your office with said blooms and deliver them. A heruculean task that your organisation has failed to achieve twice one day! It is not the North face of the Eiger, the sunbaked sands of the Serengeti or the frozen wastes of the Siberian Tyga - but two streets away from you. Your drivers do this all the time, and therefore must be suitably versed in getting their items delivered - are they not?
'Yessir.'
'Good, now go and make it so.'
-click- I had had enough

Grrrrrr………………………

It is worth mentioning that this conversation was conducted over the wireless telegraphy unit in the Alvis.

I had since arrived at my hotel in the Wirral.

I have been unfortunate enough to have been using this god-awful establishment for the last 10 years.
On not one occasion has it ever been satisfactory, but it is 200 yards from the office.

Check in. I announce my name.

'Can I have your address and business name sir?'
'You mean the details I booked with?'.
'Errrrrr……..'
'Correct answer is yes, Sir'
'Ah yes, so sorry'. What's your address please sir?
'Same as every time I have used this establishment in the last 3 years.'
'Errrrr………'

I sigh. Yet again the fuckwits of the world have united to confound me. I finally lost my normally polite self, and started to become sarcastic.

'Is there someone here who has not been hired today?'
A frantic scurrying and a Hazel Blears look-alike in glasses appears.
'Hello sir, I am the manager'
'And how long have you worked here? Twenty of your finest North-western minutes?
'Fifteen years sir'
'You have clearly reached your zenith and for that you have my pity. I have been using this place for 10 years, and you still show me the respect of not a regular customer, but of one who has bowled in off the street and demanded the use of your wheelie bin to sleep in. You have not even taken the trouble to learn who I am and thereby create even the slightest impression of welcome.'

'Well'….she looks at her screen taps furiously ' Well N----' you don't know my name'.

In military circles, this is called the 'tipping point'.

'Correct, I do not know your name. It is not my business to know your name, however, You are paid to know me, not me to know you. You have a name badge to allow me to address you with your name should I wish to do so. I also believe that under most circumstances those names should be printed in reverse script so that you can see your name with your face when you look in the mirror, obviating the requirement for you to grapple with the lofty concerns of remembering who your are AND what you look like at the same time. Oh, and it is Mr. D---- to you. I do not recall being introduced to you by my Christian name.'

'I'm very sorry N-- errr…. Mr D----'

'As for service - I have been using a hotel in another city - which I might add costs less per night than this and they have the good thinking to not only check their arrivals list, but they have take the effort of learning my tastes and the chef preparing a recommendation on my evening meal and a personal wine selection. He is normally right. On the other hand the only difference in menus here in the last 10 years is the paper they have been printed on.
Now, I will have a call at 06.30, a Daily Telegraph and pot of strong tea at exactly that time outside my room.'

'There is a small surcharge for the Telegraph sir…the Independent is free…' she tailed off after seeing my face.

''They give the Independent away at every hotel in the country - which is the only reason it has any readership at all. I would not use it to line the cage of a crapulescent budgerigar, certainly less read it. Do I sound like the sort of window licking socialist windbag who would read such trash?'
'I read it sir, it's ok.'
'Quite. My room key please.'

It didn't end there.

Two minutes later I am at reception.

'Do you employ cleaners in this hotel?'
'Yes sir'
'And they actually clean the rooms, rather than sit about reading Closer magazine and picking their expanding noses?'
'Is your room dirty sir? Let me change it right away.'
'There is a magic combination here - let me try it out'
'Sir?'
'Bathroom, Stout, Pubic and Hair.'
'I'm so sorry sir.' I will have your bags moved immediately. Would you like a complimentary drink at the bar?'
'Yes. I will have a large bloody mary with a full teaspoon of Tabasco, three not two, three, twists of black pepper, a single slice of lemon and no ice, plus a celery stick. If this is not achieved to the letter advise the barman I will horsewhip him and have you crucified at noon. Am I perfectly clear?
She smiled - despite the hardships thrown in my way - I am still smiling.
'Yessir' She said with a smile.
'Good. I shall be on the sofa. Carry on.'
'Sir.'
She carried on and a half decent bloody mary was duly delivered.
Having to share buildings with the baser forms of commercial traveller is bad enough. But expecting me to tolerate their standards of service is beyond the pale.

One glimmer of good news - is that the few simple blooms I sent to the young lady did indeed make her smile - and the smile of a pretty lady is as narcotic as the beat of an angel's wings or the first sip of champagne at on the train to work.

Big Brother

No, you idiots. Big Brother (Or ZanuLab) Watches us.
You have no need to allow the buttock-clenching mind meltingly awful spectacle of another how ever many window licking mouth breathers attempt to become c-list 'celebs' grace our screens.

Anyway - question to the readers. How many more cameras are on me as I walk down the average high-street than are on the arse-muppets in that cage of despair?

Answers, attached to a brick and thrown at Davina's gawking phisog.

My New Economics editor

I shall shortly be adding an econmics editor to my fold.
My assumption is that Sigismund merely needs to get a blog of his own, then I can add him to mine?
Does any of my readership know how to do this?

Oh, and I have been gestating a quality rant. Oh yes. Starting with Big Grey and finishing in a Hotel in the Wirral, the gentle satire that is this blog is going to give way to the white hot plasma of chap-rage.
Clearly under Blair's Britain the idea of service quality has gone out of the window, and we get service like the 70's - you remember? When Customers where a nuisance and got in the way. Just like British Rail.
But as a taster - a mere amuse bouche of what is to come. Think corporate double dealing, a delivery company failing (twice) to deliver to an address 175 yards from it's door and the magic ingredient to any hotel bathroom - stout pubic hairs.

I know everything

Read Chapsticks and get ideas likeThis !
It would be unseemly of me to gloat, as predicting an unintended consequence would take great wisdom. But then I am a GENIUS.

Sly wink to a mystery Journo who tipped me off.
Gushing thanks to the rest of the world for letting me share my GENIUS with you all.

Frozen Wastes

T'North - Both sides today - Yorkshire and the Wirral.


I am looking forward to cones, roadworks and mile upon mile of jam.


Still, Donna the Lodger has moved in - bringing her dog with her. Solid beast, is he.


Full sized mastiff, with long tail and gallons of slobber.











This is not him, but he does look like him.

As ene fule kno

This Cheered me up.

The omens ain't good so far this week.

The Colonies phoned last night to talk about a 'disengagement and re-engagement' framework. (Eh?) I muttered dark words about a dialogue sequence and an end-game. (Eh? Eh?)

Text mesage from my boss at 06.00. Stern stuff about Our European colleagues.

Plumbo-Jumbo are late - making me late with them.

Scotty has been in touch to advise that she has found an alternative route to her sailing, and has resigned her commission as one of my loyal vassals. (Why text me at 7.30 in the morning to tell me that? Anyway - I will have no truck with apostates)

So - nine fifteen, and if the day recedes into a purple cloak of doom any further, then hemlock tea shall be in order.

It may be Tuesday - but it does feel like a Monday.

Plumbo Jumbo (Again)

The waste disposal doesn't like pineapple fronds.
Or rather - my drains don't like them.

Echo Kilo, downwind to land

Saturday morning arrived and I was, to put it lightly, somewhat with excitement.
Despite the lingering rain, I shot off to the local torture garden to inflict the self flagellatory delight that is 'exercise' onto myself, to expunge the guilt of a decent glass or four of Claret.
Returned home, quick shower (too many verrucas at the gym) and packed my aviating bag....
apples.....orange juice.....flask of tea for those windswept runway thresholds.....packet of dried meats and some peanuts.
Arrived airside must have been about 10.30.
Entire gliding club is sheltering inside clubhouse telling tall tales (you know the sort - all containing, at some point, the phrase....No Shit, there I was, thought I was going to die...)
It was raining. Big time raining. Winch driver was making tea, tug pilot reading an old copy of S 'n' G. Strong smell of wet dog abounded.

The sky is leaden and shares it's wet with us all.
This was going to be a long day.

Now as you know dear reader your humble chap here is actively engaged in a programme to learn how to do this properly. I flew solo last year (hussah!) and took my law, weather and flight theory exams in February - just before my mission to Austria. But I am still in limbo.
I am chasing numbers. That means doing circuits.
I have to have 50 solo flights (50!), plus 2 x 30 minute soaring flights (nearly there), take a flight test (few spins, couple of simulated cable breaks and some point landings) then I can fly off into other airspace.
Now to non gliders - it would appear that we have had a good spring. Not So.
April had a blocking high killing off all thermal activity, and Monsoon May has struck.
Today was no exception, but I was determined to get my knees in the breeze.

I ate an apple and appealed for some assistance in pulling a single seater out. This was met with the usual hoots of derision, 'death in the skies!' etc.
Press on I shall.

In the fullness of time, the rain stopped, and I borrowed the golf cart and towed my chariot all the way down the long grass strip that is runway 22 / 04 shivering all the way.

I arrive at the threshold by the bus and picnic table, and there is Alan the Artisan:
'Hello Mr. D'
'Ah Alan, well met, trust you are well?'
'Peachy, peachy..yourself?'
'Not bad.....can you do anything with the weather?'
'Fraid not. Looks a bit murky-dismal, but there is talk of this clearing through. You after a quick dash about the skies?'
'Sure am.'
'Ok when did you last fly?'
'Last week'
'Oh then - yes I remember, weather was shit then.'
'Was indeed - you didn't get away.' (Gliding jargon - means get enough height to move off to another thermal or area)
'No chance of it today either. How's your stunning kitchen and bathroom?'
'Desperate. I blame the tiler.'
'Do you indeed? Handsome and dedicated fellow is he?'
'He is a wastrel, and should he return I will have him whipped'.
'Ooh, sir.'

The next dialogue has been heavily censored, as it was both puerile and rude.

So I dutifully strapped my parachute on, clomb aboard said aeroplane and ran through my pre-flights.

Now - I have winch launched a few times, and this is really what this post is about. What hasn't gone away is the nervous anticipation, excitement and wonder.
I still say to myself - under my breath - as I run my checklists:
Am I really going to be flying? Really? I am really going to be flying a 'plane?
I mentioned this to Alan - is this usual, one wondered.

'Not unusual at all - I still get it every time I get in my glider. Why we all do it, you see'.
I'm with him there.

Ever since I was old enough to remember, I was fascinated by flight (Going to the 'Spitfire and Hurricane' Nursery in Biggin Hill may be something to do with it. )
Every time I strap myself in to the aircraft I still find myself thinking how lucky I am to have the wherewithal to do this.
Luck indeed.

First launch.
Pulled into the back of my seat and controls feel heavy. Airborne at 35 knots, then set to rotate at fifty.
This was a stinger of a launch...straight up to 70 knots through the rotation - max speed for a winch launch. G meter showing 2G positive. Ouch.
Rolled out at 1200' dropped the cable and went looking for lift.
Not looking good. Small blips. half a knot here or there and the size of bin lids. So little heating, but a lot of sink under the decaying front.
Yuk, yuk, yuk.
Entered circuit for downwind at 700' after 3 minutes futile searching. As usual - a blip at the entry to the circuit - 'Murphy's Thermal'.
Still not used to this thing down wind, so turn to diagonal and cross wind at 500' sideslipping to burn off the height. Finals at 300, then aim for the threshold diamond. Plenty of spoiler, keep speed to 50 knots, round-out on the ground effect as I cross the peri-track. touchdown and roll-out to the end of the cables.
Total air-time - 6 minutes.

Disappointing in someways - a circuit with some turns basically, and one more on the tally. But each time when I curse the weather, I still find myself saying:
I was flying up there.......

In one fell swoop (a pune or playe on words) I had reconnected with my childhood again. It was hard work, high workload and tiring - but that little corner of you that makes your heart pound, your mouth go dry was lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was Alan that broke the spell.
"Bloody hell, didn't you like it up there? Going again?'

I wiped the grass stain on my knee, swept the raindrops off the perspex bubble and sniffed air.

'Rude not to, really - now I'm here'......
The cheesy grin said more than words.

Repeat until poor again.

Strange Post

I received a letter from my Bankers this morning. On opening it, it revealed a Shiny Platinum coloured card and the business card of a gentleman purporting to be my 'Personal Banker'.
Hello, thought I what's this. Turned said item over. There was a number to call that was not the normal number.

So I thought I would give it a whirl.

Straight through, no question of queuing.

'Hello Sir.' took my account number. 'Just putting you through to your manager, sir.'

'Ahhh Sir (smarm smarm) how can I help today?'

'What is this service about, then?'

'Well sir, you are now a very valued customer.'

'But I haven't heard of this service'

'Indeed sir, most people are not supposed to. It is only for our most valued clients - ones who have a significant sum of money with us.'

(Eh?)

'Meaning?'

'Well sir - you qualify for …'…(He then lists all manner of vulgar credit cards named after metals, outrageous overdraft sums, interest free loans and the like), 'and should you wish to discuss any of our products whatsoever, arrange a time - and I will come over to visit you at a time that suits you -at home or work.'

'I require none of those things at all, sir'. Sayeth I.

'Indeed sir, but as I a sure a gentleman of your obvious standing is aware - should you require them - we would decline them. They are available to you should you desire them.'
'But they involve the borrowing of money - not a thing I do'
'Indeed sir - we do notice that'.

'In other words, because I do not choose to borrow any money - you try and lend me very large sums'

'Quite so sir'

I hung up the phone and opened my other post.

It was an invite to a 40th birthday do. An old biker chum of mine is having it, and he is going to be in drag.
Again.
It would seem he is rather taking to the wearing of women's clothing. I am not sure it is entirely compatible with his career as a motorcycle mechanic, though.

Funny start to a Friday eh?

Boy's Toys

Human life is split in to two groups:

Those who fly and those who wish they could.

My Saturday toy is pictured above.

The Alvis

Is playing up a tad today.
On the run into the home-base hamster wheel she started playing up.
It seems that 'George' is a bit poorly.
He is a basic fellow, the 'George' in this crate, as all he does is hold speed - not attitude and heading. (More's the pity)
Now - we are not talking 'one engine on fire, two and three feathered and still have to crack the flak barrier at Bremerhaven to get home' - more like he keeps disengaging and asking me to use the ABS to reset the speed. (huh?)

Joy though - a quick call to the spanner fellows and it is on a recall. Apparently the software in the ABS damping is a bit dicky.
Quick probing reveals all sorts of things in the new car with software. Even the electric windows have software.

Why does this suprise me? I know for fact my dishwasher would out-compute Apollo 11.
What annoys me - is that being a Swedish car (Yes I know, not really an Alvis, but work with me ok?) that if I put it in gear the nanny state takes over, and tells me to fill the washer bottle, put my seat belt on, have a wee, put ten pee in my pocket to phone home and have clean pants on should anything happen.
Bloody thing even tells me when I am exceeding 80 with 'dangerous speed - beware'.
Grrr..... ever an incentive to set that alarm off, I can tell you.

Oh My Liege, you have spoken

Boris!

And this is why I will spend this weekend pissing about in an aeroplane, cooking lobster tails on the barbecue for friends, drinking vast quantities of rather good French wine, going out to meet a young lady with the very serious intention of leading her astray and playing with power tools on a wet bank holiday in a crude facsimile of DIY.
Not quite a full life of sex and danger, just more expense and possibly some mild peril.

Certainly beats doing much else. Other than sailing or taking enough Ecstacy to kill a deer.

In other news, whilst playing at frogmen in the Antilles with his Mistress, my brother claims to have a mild dose of the bends and has 'blood fizzing like a bottle of warm coke.' He is really suffering from beach lassitude and the effects of the local cultural cigarettes.


Fez-doff to The Greek fellow.

Where there's muck....

A bin, yesterday.

I suspect a lot of hot air (pun fully intended) will get generated over the latest thing by the councils - what with cameras in bins, and areas (mine included) going to fortnightly collection.
I now have three bins outside. One for garden waste (I have a patio courtyard), one for normal kitchen waste, and they are upgrading the orange bags to bins for my newspapers, light card, glossies and placky bottles.

I am fortunate to have fitted one of those machines to the sink that chews up food waste, flushing it harmlessly down my drains (I really should be very careful there - given the sensitivity of my local drainage). All in all this means I am very little affected by the changes. I live alone, don’t generate much waste and dispose of what I create sensibly.
Now a chap looks at this and thinks in two ways. One could get a bit heated and fulminate to the authorities and say that I am paying you for this. One would like to review the spreadsheets where they work out the likely volume drop in landfill, versus the tax increase. One suspects that there increase in tax, versus the likely drop is less than the money saved by alternate collections. That's what should come of my rates. This implies a single local monopoly as the government knows best what I need and determines how my services are provided and my acceptance that this is the right way.

Or….

The enterprising amongst us looks at the industrial waste removers, and think ' Hello - gap been created in the market'
I can see it now….'' We will Come and have your bin sanitised and emptied once a fortnight for a fee''. I am certain there is a margin between the £/tonne landfill tax, and the collection costs for such waste - versus the rate the market (us) will bear for having our bin emptied and sweetened. (Bins with Grins!!)

There could well be a boom in competitive local services, offering competition to local politicised monopolies (Councils). All that is necessary now is a quick switch to allow you to opt out of the services your council can provide but you can buy cheaper elsewhere. With the technology going in - it could easily be tweaked to manage account information so that your personal rubbish service only charges you for what you create. Even better- the Polluter pays. And there is a huge disincentive for your to be over productive with sprogs - as you have to bear the real cost of ownership, instead of it being carried by the state.

At a stroke - Domestic services have real local competition, things get efficient and we move to a beautiful sunlit uplands with empty bins.

I bet Cyclops and which ever of his running dogs thought this up didn't think it could end there.
As ever with the big statist solution to local problems - it is the unintended consequences which bring the most interest.

Oh I am sure those statist among you will insist that only the government know best how to empty your bins, or some stuff about it will 'exclude' those who can't afford private collections. Stuff, I say Stuff! Their bins get emptied now, do they not? Why should that change?
It is the same argument that water and food is too important to be left in the hands of grubby commercialists, and a nice fair Board of Supply will take care of you.

So in summary - I welcome the move!

PS: If you think competition is wrong - I don't suppose you remember the days when you had to queue up at the GPO shop to order a telephone, and wait three months for it to be delivered- or only being allowed to buy a fridge form your Electricity board shop.... it wasn't that long ago....

Plumbo-Jumbo

Happy days are here again.
Worrying - my Dyno-rod man knows me by sound on the phone. Thank god it is all covered.
Yet again - problem caused by idiot chucking industrial grade tissue down the loo. Same as idiots chucking face wipes down the heads on the chap's yacht. It is not pretty and rubber gloves end up being used in anger.

But I can now return to a happy state. My plumbing is fixed.
Now to re-wire the dishwasher........

As one of my commentators put it this isn't gentle satire, this blog is stoic humour in the face of gritty reality.

Chapsticks...etc.

T'interweb

Highly amusing..

A doff of the evening fez to the Devil.
He flicks his tail at Dizzy.

Blogs will eat themselves.

Chapsticks - where two's company and three's a readership.

No, the light is the 10.25 to Brighton

Well, quite a week so far, and it is only Wednesday. The grout in the Kitchen around the sink is not dry - meaning I can't wash-up, nor can I clean up after myself. Thus the Chinese this evening beckons.
My light at the end of the tunnel comment refers to what I hope can be the only problem I have left with my drains. British Gas are on their way, and I seek Solace in a very good estate bottled Fleurie plus others.
I say that advisedly, as every single piece of plumbing in my house has either been replaced, overhauled, rimmed out or flushed through. when completed, It will be good for another 70 years. Chez chap just having had her 70th birthday, natch.

But dear reader, where have I been? The MSM is awash with tales of Patsy being hung out to dry, lies in the media, the Cutty Sark being burnt down and all things political for this chap to get hot under his 15 1/2 brass stiffened collar about.

In 'puting terms - it's all about runtime. I have had a lot going 'dahn' this week. Many things to contend with - what with pushing the builders to finish, negotiating my exit from the business I work in, with my expat job to follow it and something else.

Pause for effect, glance at camera 2, then back to cam 1..deep breath.

Gallantry means I cannot say a great deal at the moment. But In a 'blogging will eat itself' way - I have had some interesting thoughts about how the dynamics change when you move between media - and the social impact it has on interpersonal relations.

In blogistan, we are used to existing in free-thought mode. IE: we are entities of our own expression alone. We are evaluated to our connective worth according to what we express and how we use our written skills to express it. In some ways it is very pure. However - it has drawbacks. The most basic Neurolinguistics student will tell you the percentage of communication that is non-verbal. Thus when non textualisation occurs there is a shift in ones' perception of another. In addition, text is not immediate. We edit and polish our statement.
Devirtualisation means we now move to an immediacy and additional non-verbal clues that allow secondary judgements to take place. If the purpose of the devirtualisation is with motive, then any challenges to perceptions are heightened, and as a result sharper judgements get made.
Understanding how transactional intimacy works means understanding that a state-change in media also induces a state change in transactional dynamics. The anonymity of the interweb induces a level of candour that would be surprising in ordinary contact.
From a sociological viewpoint, it will be interesting to review the progress of a devirtualisation with reference to prior contact.

Put simply. I have a date. I have met her via electronic means, and I am nervous.

Nerves are good, they help you focus.

No names, though.

On the other hand, rather thought DC tore into Grinny rather well at PMQ.

I will let you know how the drains go.

End in sight

It would appear, well by Alan the Artisan, that the horrors that were my drains - are now fixed. The Bathroom is finished, and he will complete the kitchen today.

All over, bar the hoovering, getting the dishwasher out and working again and repainting the garage....

I can now return home and spend the rest of the weekend clearing up. Other than a bit of light aeronautical adventures of course.
I will need to hose down the motorbike though. Apparently the nastiness may have reached her.


But to other matters. I have taken the bit of the post down where I was rude to The Scot. On reflection doing that to a conversation wasn't very fair. I can be big about this. Points made all round.

Nothing to say about the Cutty Sark, as it was headline news in the blogsphere. Very sad, though. I still think we should sack Calais, just in case it really was the French.
Nice day in Croydon, as well. If such a thing can exist.

Drains

I am not sure my house project can get any worse. Drainage failures again. Nasty one though. Quick - call dyno-rod. Third time in a month!

Am I eating too much fibre?

UPDATE......
Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Fortunately my constuction engineers saw my side and a fellow was despatched poste-haste. I am now refusing to return home until It is clean, tidy and fully functional.
I shall take rooms in South London and seek solace in liquour.
A gentleman should never have to deal with this, but being a chap-about-empire, one can face such horrors with fortitude and resolution. And rubber gloves, of course.

That'll teach me.

Seems I have upset poor Scotty. Not enough time to do a proper post, but she is vexed over my treatment of her commentary and attempts to enjoy the sagacity of my nautical prowess.
I shall blog properly in good time.

I must away - chumrade awaits with a bottle of Burgundy and freshly filled pipes to point meaningfully at one another.

UPDATE - SAT PM
Need to sort rude post out in a bit. I may have to compromise my meagre principles and take it down to sooth her savagery. Or edit it a great deal.
Still sorting out wreckage of a home now the builders have pretty much finished everything. The tip awaits. Noisy destruction and usefulness combined. Joy.

Chap Olympics

I will now shamelessly promote This Event, as I wish the gentlemen running it to make me the official 'live-blogger' of the games.



I shall be entering the Hop, Skip and G+T, plus, I really must enter 'Bounders'. That has me to a tee. With any luck I could persuade my female readership to join me in this exercise, thereby underlying my caddish nature.

And how dirty are you....?

My fine is £850.60....what's yours?

Big Hat tip to the Devil who has some proper fisking going on, sound fellow.

Oh, and I may have to travel to Colonies soon. Our cousins there need my chappy ways with some work.
One will instruct them in many things - but chiefly it will involve bamboozling them about cricket and lecturing them on how to make a decent cup of tea.

Here is a picture of some cheese. It seemed appropriate.


Cheese, holding a protest, yesterday.

No, I said 'Fisk', there's no 'T' in it.

An interesting night on the wires last night. Two telephone calls which amused me a great deal. The most amusing part is that it was two young ladies who wanted a favour off me. One of which I was obliging to, the other left a sour taste in my mouth. The first conversation I relay with delight - for I can help a friend. The second is worthy of a little chappy fisking.

The first was a young lady friend (single, cute, non-target, dark haired and likes house music) who had fallen on some bad luck and needed somewhere to live. She phoned and said she was after a huge favour, and needed some help. Knowing I was a dog lover with a spare room - and she was being made homeless I was her first call. She was sweet, polite and friendly - and said that at any time if I got annoyed I could chuck her out - it was a short term favour.
Without hesitation I agreed to take her in - with her large doggy as well, until such time as she sorts herself out.

By the time she realises I live on a diet of parsnip sandwiches, minced raw chicken and laxatives it will be too late. She will then join me on the turbid pathways to Elysium via sexual extremism and 'Nude Wednesdays'.

UPDATED: Rude bit removed.

Giddy Up!

That's it. Up with this, I will no longer put.
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).

However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.

There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.

1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.

2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.

3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.

4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.

5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.

Waiting for Gordo

One's blogging has been frightfully prosaic of late. I put this down to the fact that the media is totally obsessed with Gordo the Broon at the moment - it is after all - his time in the sun - and that my domestic life has been one of plaster dust, tiles and blocked pipes. Takes up the run-time, as the 'puter boffins are apt to quote.


But Back to Cyclops. The media are clearly in his gruesome thrall. One hopes that given a short period of time, the tin-plate tarnishes, and as the Sarge used to say ' You can't polish a turd sir!'
It is not as if what he is saying is terribly new. This quote from Dizzy sums it up.
What does flatten one's tonic is that it all seems so terribly populist, Napoleon's hundred days and the like.



For example: five new Bracknells will be built on the grounds that despite they will do what they always did with new towns, they genuinely believe they will not get what they previously got. Rest of it is trite media grandstanding or the sort one expects from someone on a hideous reality television show trying to boost their ratings to a duped audience at home furiously phoning in to affect a pre-made outcome.
(I think there are a number of parallels there - feel free to insert own)


So - on that theme, I await the following blandishments from Gordo to boost his ratings:


1. Jobs for everyone, everyone for Jobs.


2. The Grass will be Greener if you elect me to be your Comrade Secretary.


3. Tough on New Labour, tough on the Causes of New Labour.


4. I'm Invisible, you can’t see me.


5. A five year plan to enhance the production of Tractors in Labour marginal seats, through taxation of those who can scarcely afford welding them ever further to a cycle of grateful dependency on me, whilst sucking up furiously to growing ruling elite created by self and perpetuated because they know better.


Obviously the last one is too close to the truth for him to say.


I do wonder what bad news they have buried whilst the 'meed-yah' is in his gruesome thrall.

A night on the Tiles

Five long days since I have posted Chaps and Chapesses.
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Oh No.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.

After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.

Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)

Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.

One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.

But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.

Chop-Chop Alan!

Going...going...going...going...going...

Today the Prime Minister, Tony Bliar, announced that he will be holding a press conference launching his resignation announcement speeches. With a date set as the end of June - the knowledge of the announcement-launch announcement date will be seen to be a little premature, and that these events could have been stage managed a little better.

Tony - the People's Prime Minister picture here:

said 'I look forward to announcing my resignation speech dates soon. They will shortly be followed by Captain Chipolata, Doctor Diktat and the rest of my cronies.

In other news, Gordon Broon has announced that his campaign is 'fully operational', we will see a demonstration of it's power on Alderaan and that David Milliband will come over to the dark side, crush the Emperor and they will rule the Galaxy side by side.

Monday, Monday....

It seems like a 'docker's tea' break since been at the hamster wheel.
But now, relaxing with a cheeky Sancerre and blogging from home.
So what has gone on?
Well - Chumrade and self have had chap-day-out to France.
To whit:
Exceedingly early start and on the fast picket to Cherbourg. Straight to Normandy wines to collect SWAG. Usual shenagigans to be had tasting et al, then on to Carrefour to collect decent picnic for the boat home. Frustrating telco with the yacht club committee with usual officiousness and general malaise from the most useless collection of drips. Only people who speak any sense is the Rear Commodore and myself (One hopes beyond fair reason that he shall raise his broad pennant in good time) plus sage interventions from our newbie. She is a nice young chapess who despite benighted occupation as employee of our Uber-state manages to go out with our ace helmsman and regularly offers to run show-pillow-fights with the other girls who sail with us. This generally raises interest from the more rakish crewmen, but usually turns out to be a humorous ruse.

But what of this other half holiday?

Had house guest for part of weekend. The Lovely Young 'Half-Pint'.
Half-Pint is sweet and pretty, with cascades of blonde curls, but treats me 'as a brother'. (Pah!)
Whilst adventurous (A skiing chum, no less) and generally willing to have a go at my idea of fun, she is prone to the vapours, and found the aviation - while fun - a little much, and had to take to her bed for a period whilst she recovered her lesser humours.
The flying for me was a bit ropey too. V. Windy. Chucked about the shop like pass-the-parcel in Basra.

Rest of the weekend has been spent orbiting the seventh level of hell - or 'Homebase' as I believe it is called. I do not do DIY - unless it involves, sheds, boats or very large electric power tools. I have procured the materials for my Gentleman of Trades who is arriving tomorrow to complete the tiling phases of Chez-chap. I never realised that tiles were expensive. I have spent the equivalent of a weekend in Marrakesh on wall-coverings. This serves to remind me I am 'investing' in the property - and curtails my more lurid excesses until payday arrives. Again.

In the rest of the time, I have been finally sorting out the old type-writer-screen machine so I again have wireless interweb and it appears the rest of my software is slowly re-establishing itself.

In other news, I am delighted that the Evil Socialists have taken a bit of a kicking, and the French have elected Droopy the Dog to be their new king. Will we see another enlightenment in France? Will they take on the unions? Will they creep into the 21st century? But more important- will they restore the lands of the crown in Aquitaine?
Time will tell.

In the mean time dear reader, I shall go and press my plus-fours (Servant boy's day off), finish the Sanc and smoke a cheroot. As the wheel beckons, and Artisan arriveth tomorrow, one had better lay off the magic tincture.

Vote! Vote! Vote!

I am taking the fast picket to Normandy tomorrow morning, and returning to Blighty in the evening laden with SWAG. - Sancerres, Macons, Gigondas, Cote de Beaunes and good Rhone Rosés. I shall lunch in St Vaast and look out across the La Manche while dining and consider my good fortune.

The down side is that I will not be able to put my X in the box.

I boycott postal voting, as it is a mere ruse by the Evil Socialists to fiddle the votes Mugabe-style. I also like the ceremony of putting my X in the box with the pencil stub and putting it in the big box marked 'BALLOT BOX'.

The best bit is of course looking forward to the outcome tomorrow night. I am an election night junkie - and sit awaiting Peter Snow with his various swingometers.

Needless to say - there is only one outcome worth considering, and let us hope that we 'wipe the eye' of the Evil Socialists and the Evil Crypto-Socialists.

We are slaving under a yoke of control freakery, nannyist, corrupt, grasping, cronyist, thieving, lying, sanctimonious, patronising, deceitful, illibertarian, and big-brother government. Your freedom to live your life un-bothered by their evil nosey ways has even come down to putting cameras in your dustbin. All that is necessary for this evil to prevail is for good men (and women) to do nothing.

I urge all of you to do your duty, and go and do anything, anything, other than vote Labour tomorrow.

I shall be drinking wine and eating oysters.

An apology

On a recent post I suggested that as a reaction to further nannyist interference I will make available to my nephews a variety of things of which nanny would not approve.
Included in that item was the outrageous suggestion that weedkiller and sugar should be available to them.
This is, of course, highly irresponsible - and would encourage the toddlers to experiment with other substances, such as the modish hair peroxide and nail varnish remover, or the ever reliable C4.
In almost all of the cases the ingredients are dangerous and the results are unstable.

No. In future if they request their Uncle's assistance in the creation of home made explosives I will direct them to the acres of newsprint lately on the joys of the traditional Ye Olde Englishe Plant-food and Diesel recently popularised by the 'modern retro' chaps from West Sussex shown here .
As we are now going all 'modern retro' in this arena, I look forward to Nihilists committing arson, Vitriol flinging (For real not just the people carrying out their divorces in Heat magazine) - and with any luck some decent defenestration.

PS: Does Baby-Bio and White Spirit do it?

Make mine a double, Nanny!

The Poor Little Greek Boy sums this up nicely Here.
I mean - how do they intend this to be enforced? Or will the evil socialists running the show get their way and bring the surveillance into our homes to make sure every piece of parental responsibility is controlled by the state. Polly must be delighted.

I'm not a parent, but I am looking forward to supplying my nephew(s) with ale, wine and spirits whenever they ask for them. In fact - I also intend to give them a Dunhill Junior smoker kit, matches to play with, fireworks, a chemistry set with really lurid chemicals, air guns, weedkiller and sugar (you either know or you don't), rubber bands, sharp objects to run with, dirt to eat, food that has fallen on the floor, insects and magnifying glasses, books rescued from the loft such as 'Super Simon Shoots Smiling Sambos', 'Tintin gasses the Gyspsies', 'Biggles machine-guns the Jerries', and 'Hornblower bashes the frogs'.
Why?
Because whatever you prohibit, the more people want. The more Nanny tries to re-educate us in the politically correct, the more we seek it later. I was forced to go to chapel at Stalag-Luft-school - and that would turn you away from religion.


Stopping kids from enjoying a glass of wine with their folks over Sunday lunch smacks of class warfare, because it is seen to be 'middle class' (Or responsible and independent - not slavishly doing what the Nanny state says).
Plus they will be round the back of the bike sheds guzzling white lightning anyway.

The prat who dreamed this up isn't fit to clear tables in a pub.

The Joy of Shirk

Been off the grid for a bit dear readers. This is for two reasons. Mostly I have been working like a Sherpa. Secondly the Catering wing and bathroom facilities of Chez-Chap are now being re-built to my exacting specifications, and this has eaten up a lot of run-time.
To keep myself sane have had the odd afternoon off playing with my pet Sopwith Camel and am slowly getting the hang of this 'staying up on rising currents of air' lark.

However, with my nose this close to the grind stone, I have had little time to reflect upon my environment - in the same way a fireman chooses not to reflect on the beauty of the conflagration before him - or a sea captain chooses not to dissolve into a brown study to contemplate the wonders of the deeps before him.

I have been considering the taxonomy of my female acquaintances. Mainly for amusement (and their good), but chiefly following a conversation with The Scot - whom I know to be a reader. (You know who you are my dear...how is Morocco?)
These dryadic delights exist in many forms and I believe they bear classification. The nature of which I have not had time to give more than sufficient consideration to bear out a few basic categories. I feel there may be telling amusement therein - so if / when I get around to it - watch this space.
But to my female readership - ask yourself this - how would you choose to stir paint? Your answer will give me a clue to the appropriate taxonomy.

It looks distubingly like the Proper map of the 'Good Old Days'

create your own visited country map
or check our Venice travel guide


One has to ask the following simple question about the bits I haven't been to yet:

1. Can they make a decent cup of tea?
2. Have they got proper money with the queen on it?
3. Do they play cricket?

If the answer is none of the above, then I'm sorry it is probably not worth going there.

In fact there are a few of them I have been to where they can not only fail to make a christian cup of tea, but they entertain whiggsh notions such as putting bridges on their money, and insisting that we all share it.
Savages.

Have sighted Pole star (post marked Hounslow)

I'm in T'North again. Fortunately at my favourite inn.

They have started checking the register, and 'taking the liberty' of pre-cooling a bottle of Brouilly and asking chef to keep back any game 'just in case' I should like the first refusal.

Fine fellows.

And unlike every other benighted establishment outside town these chaps know how to mix a decent bloody mary - even asked how much horseradish I would like in mine. Put in a tablespoon of sherry unbidden too.

Service like that is almost illegal. Certainly outside the better London luncheon clubs anyway.

What would Nelson say?

I have been pondering the 'plight' of the Iran 15.

I do have a couple of thoughts.

I understand the Lieutenant that when surrounded by superior gunnery, there is no shame in striking your colours to save your crew. This fellow indeed new the rules, and struck accordingly. My knowledge of current doctrine is pretty hazy, but unless the witless socialists have infected Naval doctrine, then we expect that - as we did in Soviet days - seized crew would be used as propaganda tools.
I therefore imagine they knew they would be used as such.
I do, though, want to pick up a few bits.

Compare the following:
A battered John Nichol - who had banged out of his kite when they shot his tail off with anti aircraft guns as he flew at 20 feet bombing an enemy runway - blinking out SOS on Iraqi telly….
To…….
The milksops who blubbed that nasty guard had taken his iPod, and dear Queen of Hearts Failing Seaman Faye who was prepared to 'Do Anything' to get home in time to see her daughter.

I nearly choked on my Earl Grey when I read that.

Surely that undermines having women in the front line doesn't it? Say anything to the Enemy to get home in time?

Correct me if I am wrong, but the traditions of the Service is that the RN consider themselves superior as everyone, everyone goes to the 'front line'. You all go to sea.
I have always held the Senior Service in the highest regard, but these two pointless knicker wetters have lost my sympathy.

I pay my tax so you guys go out there, shoot people, get shot at, dodge torpedoes and the like. You join the navy to go in harms way.

In the course of your duty you should also expect that your government would look after you, and if you are illegally seized then you won't rot in some third world jail or if you have to go through a show trial, they will get you out somehow.
I can understand that you know the witless socialists in charge haven't got the balls to sort anything out and would fuck up something like this, and do-gooder rules of engagement you have to work under are written by similar knicker-wetter social worker Islington dinner party types who can't tell a 4.5'' shell from a diversity outreach seminar. (Probably something in them about rewarding the anti social behaviour - or that they are failed consumers really)

Also the government spin machine probably thought we would buy this tommy-rot as counter propaganda - so got them so sell the more victimish stories on, as a tear jerker - 'Oh How they were saved.'

BUT....

Was this the same service who fought in the South Atlantic, dodging Exocets and thousand pounders in bomb alley? The same Service of Nelson's Band of Brothers? The same grit as the heroes of the Atlantic convoys?
Whining that you were roughed up, cried for your mum 'cos the nasty boys took your stereo or you would happily derelict your duty to get home for your daughter's birthday?

This behaviour we expect from the RAF, not the Navy.

Oh, and I reckon this is covered by Article 10.

On the Barky

Well yes, less said about engine trouble the better.

We all say a day on the water is better than a day in the office, even if you are stuck alongside with a busted water pump and impeller fault.

Here's what we should have been doing. Obviously without the leeches.

Another Bank Holiday bites the dust

IN the good old days, this Chap used to indulge himself thoroughly at Easter. I would either take the barky over to Normandy raid the wine shops, eat oysters, langoustines and scallops and go out for sumptuous 8 course dinners, then toot our way home to stay awake in the wee hours of the darker watches.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.

Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.

Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.

I had been doing my decking, borders and been to the tip twice.

He had stained his shed and made some rather fine Chili and Tomato jam.

We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.

We have both become our Dads.

This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.

Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!

We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.

Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)

Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.

An incentive to get the front lawn done.

Prune-Man exceeds like excess itself

I don't need to hat-tip or link this, because everyone else has, and it is getting blanket coverage.

But, Keith, dear boy, Keith - we were all expecting to have to snort your ashes to get that unusual high - on the grounds that you had hoovered all the good stuff up already.

Rock and/or Roll. Love it.

Back on the blockade duties

A Channel crossing, yesterday.

At last a chumrade has conspired and planning some vacational activity. This currently comprises two fiendish plots.

Plot one.

Fast packet out of Pompeii and rapid dash to Cherbourg. Baffle Les Douaniers, confound the Bonapartistes and make a dash to Normandy Wines. Purchase summer wine requirements, eat sumptuous fish luncheon in St Vaast. Drink strong French coffee, get on fast packet home. Spend rest of bank holiday communing with swag, eating off mega-grill in the courtyard (whilst throwing bones over fence into Vet's garden for added amusements) then pootle off to the flying club, where we can strafe our own airfield in return for the local pikeys not stealing our land rover again.

Nothing like a good holiday at home.

Plot two.

Same conspirator, plus a chum who is an unreconstructed champagne Marxist.
Take the barky on the slow route to Normandy from Gosport. Spend relaxing week buying wine, eating sumptuous fish luncheons in St Vaast, Honfleur and Cherbourg. Eat quantities of French meat off barbecue on back of boat, tossing bones at the marauding packs of French curs while we drink strong coffee - for extra amusement.
Then on return to blighty, throw all cheap tobacco overboard to make up for not having to queue to go through customs.
Nothing like a good holiday away.

There will be no rowing skiffs, nothing to do with the Thames and absolutely no dog coming with us, will there, Monty.