"I went to Machynlleth and all I got was this lousy landscape"

Supposed to be jets zooming down it, there was. That's the infamous Mach Loop. Go climb every mountain. And at the top of it, free airshow as fast jets go whacking down there all day doing low level flying. It's the new black. At least for anoraks with less to look at than we used to have.

Except when I climbed it, they were all in the pub.

Bastards.

Free shows for the boys

That was nice.

Heard the sound of heavy piston engines in the garden, so ran for a pair of binoculars; if I'd have been wiser I'd have ran for bins AND a camera as once the Hawker Hurricane mk.2 hove into sight over the shed, I had to make another journey for the Bosscam and a clean memory card, so no pictures of that little beaut. However, I did get shots of the mk.19 Spitfire that emerged shortly afterwards and did a few circuits about three quarters of a mile away. Not great art by any means but spruced up the afternoon no end anyway; both from the Battle of Britain mob from up the road at RAF Coningsby - if we're being exact, it's Hurricane PZ865 ("Night Reaper", the last one built) and Spitfire PS915. How do I know? Visible markings easily discernable from the ground if you know what you're looking for; I earned my anorak, folks.. you have to be good to be this geeky. Half an hour later, a white Catalina flying boat strolled by at a few thousand feet altitude which is a tad more uncommon. And still very pleasant.

Of course, if I bothered to read the "Codhead News" I'd have known that it was carnival day on the waterfront today, and that the displays were all tied in with that, but frankly I don't and I remained ignorant. Or rather, more ignorant than usual. Ninety nine days out of a hundred there's naff all in that rag to interest me anyway, so the sparkly good photos I could have taken on the beach have to remain un-taken. Oh well. There's always another time. A shame, it's cracking weather out there. What some folks call "cracking the flags". I had to have that one explained to me. I come from south of Watford gap, y'know. But I'm knackered, folks. Driven between six and seven hundred miles this week, and very many of my weekend chores today have fallen by the wayside and there they will stay for a day longer.

But, I suspect not the chore that involves shifting my lardy arse towards the waterfront and watching the sun go down with a pint. Wish you could get real cider in this town that ISN'T Old Rosie - it's a headbanger and there's far better drinks out there - but since The County was taken over by a facist Strongbow pushing multinational, it's that or Pisswater in the Yarbie. So beer it will be.

Got the c*nt !!!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7519039.stm

One of the prize arseholes of our time bites the dust, at least as far as being able to drink beer on corner cafes is concerned.

Songs in the key of Kill

Woken from unwelcome dreams of unwelcome people by a bouncing hyper black cat and the sound of wingbeats. Yep, the local songbird population is being stupid and Gizmo the cat has won; nonchalantly strolls out from under my bed with a wing potruding from his gob and his tail in the air. But wait, it's not yet dead... much fluttering, scrabbling (you'd be amazed how in the middle of a life of death struggle they can stop to compare a three word score), the bird lodges itself behind a chest of drawers and my bimbo cat is distracted in the middle of his "I am cat, I am patient" evil waiting game by seeing his sunbeam and having to lie in it for a minute or two. Of course, "that bird's not going anywhere".

Muppet.

Window opened, bird descretely rescued, karma working in my favour for the rest of the day. I hope. I'm really not too keen on him wiping out songbirds. OK, kill all the mice. But songbirds make my day a nicer place, and I prefer not to find them in kit form all over the place.

Anyway's up. That's enough of that. It's Saturday, I'm not working and I've got things to do; specifically shifting my arse over to the other side of the country for a little while, then driving all the way back again. "And when I was only half way up, I was at the M4 services". Nah, doesn't have the Duke of York ring to it, does it.

Respect

That's what I love about living in the early 21st century. We haven't got any so long as we can make a buck and put our godforsaken timestamp on the map permanently.

Chavasse. No, not French for a Burberry wearer. Military hero, and never killed a man in his life. Medic during the first world war, had balls the size of tractor tyres. The sort of bloke who won his first VC for plucking shot up men out of a world of shite and danger and getting them back to a place where the only thing they had to worry about was British army surgeons; then on the back of that prompty goes back to the line, gets more daily explosive thrown at him courtesy of World War 1 for a long spell of dragging aforementioned people out of shite and danger, gets lumps blown off him and refuses to be evacuated until he is too screwed to save. Dead hero; plenty live people thanks to him and a second VC awarded. Incredibly rare. His adopted home town of Liverpool dedicate a park to him. Somewhere for kids to play, people to reflect, somewhere peaceful. One European culture year later....

Look what they've done.

Killing time

Not me. The G boy. In that "it's killing time" rather than Hammer time. Although if he wanted to make a start on the MC's throat, I'd nail the bugger's parachute pants to the ground to give the G boy an easier time.

Nope, he's clearly got out of his mood of lates and has enough spare capacity in his war with Foul Ginger to get back to form and bring his old dad a present. A visit from a bouncy cat in the night, followed by the sounds of hyper behaviour in the bedroom in the dark (From the cat. Behave! Oh dear, there's no way I'm going to win THIS one is there, wash your mind out), then early in the morning to discover a fresh mouse corpse on the floor at the foot of the bed. We've had words before about using my room as his private killing floor. But frankly, it's nice to see him back to himself. Could this mean a late in the year rush on his stats?

RIAT, we're sorry we nicked the sunshine (bumper pictures issue)

It's OK folks, I'm sane again now. A week later and the temper meter has JUST about dropped into the green, ho ho ho!


After much ranting and temper loss, I managed to salvage one of the three lost "must do" shows thanks to a technical issue at work. That duty duly cancelled, so quickly jumped in with a leave request before any bastard could fill my Sunday with more shite, and scuttled off down south in the Mirthmobile GLC to sunny Duxford, where in between overcasts and threatened showers that never materialised, it was what some of my more northerly correspondents call "Cracking the flags". Strange thing to do to coloured ceremonial pieces of cloth if you ask me, but hey, they like whippets up here. Jollification ensued; more of the sort of thing that happened back in May, but this time without jets as it's the annual Flying Legends show, that I've not managed to make it to since Pontious was a pilot. It's organised by the big league petrolheads at Duxford, and therefore big bore fighter stuff is the order of the day, but no flying blowtorches, as a certain Mr Kinsey of Ipswich disparagingly called them. Nope, big petrol engines are the order of the day, here. It's a shame about the enforced absence of recent years, as they always pull out the stops for this one; always something to see. Re-enactors in period pilot dress mooching around the fighters, the "flight line walk", and the unusual crowd line which puts the proper approved safe flying line almost right over your head and very very low indeed if you're sat on the "tank bank", my new favorite photography spot. This year, the talk was about the fact that they'd gotten three B-17's (that's the Flying Fortress bomber to you philistines) together on the airfield at once to fly. That's big cheese in the UK; only one flyer lives here, the well known "Sally-B"; they'd got "Pink Lady" (an actual combat veteran) from France over as well but the big news was, "Liberty Belle" was brought over from the states too. Three at once. Can't remember when that was last done in the UK, maybe not since they were taken out of service. Of course, Sally's had engine problems of late and was always going to be a question mark... I'd no sooner walked towards the guy standing next to her with the question on my lips when I saw that where No.4 engine should be there was nothing but an empty firewall. Ah. That answers that then. No three - ship today. Never mind. Two's special anyway. Not something you see every day. And then there was the massed Spitfire take off to open the show, the Stearmen wing walkers to bore me senseless in the middle of it (oh why didn't somebody shove a pink spinal stiffener down the throat of the purile bimbo they got to commentate that section, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, next year I'm packing wire cutters for the PA if you're going to talk again) and finally the Balbo that finishes the show. The first and the last are Flying Legends trademarks. The middle one, I hope with all due respect shuts the fuck up and doesn't come back. The Balbo.... well, if you've not seen one, you wouldn't know, but the noise is to be experienced. Thirty huge aero engines can sound like music. They really can. Close up, they'll break your ears. In the air, it's a ballet. And some of the stuff here has got pedigree.... see those pictures below? The dark green P-40 with it's wheels coming up with the big white stencilled number you can barely make out? That's the last flyable aircraft in the world that was actually AT Pearl Harbour during the raid. And it lives at Duxford. I counted twenty six in the formation, including two bombers so that's a LOT of metal and a lot of horsepower. Turned out one of the Mustangs had engine probs coming in, rough landing, bent undercarriage leg and grounded propellor. But I didn't see that at my end. So, airshow completed and a perfect drive back with the sunroof and all windows open, fast roads all the way, perfect summer evening. No spectactular sunset like the last time to Fairford, but a day perfectly well spent anyway, best day's worth of annual leave I've taken in yonks.








And speaking of Fairford. Ah, they didn't go quite so well. I was never going to get to this one, there was no way to weasel out of Saturday's shift as luck generously provided for Sunday. And as we all know by now, the weather caused the whole airshow to be scrubbed; all those planes and effort for nothing. But I went down for the Friday session anyway in an attempt to make some use of my days off and catch some aircraft; I actually aimed for the Thursday as well but was spectacularly useless in the preparation and didn't leave til late; instead I dropped in on my friend Ellie and her fella Neil in parts south, then moved on to a nice pub in Chipping Norton for a pint of glorious Hook Norton (one of my fav southern breweries) before finding a nice safe spot to ensconce myself for the night. Moved up to the airfield early doors, parked the mirthmobile at the top of one of their off-site parking fields and made my way in, just in time to miss the decent photography angles for the Dutch F-16 display which annoyed a bit, as they seem to have repainted the display bird and it's a bit lovely. Sixteen quid to get into the "pay and view" compound was a bit steep, but it's Fairford and that's the nature of the beast. It costs a bomb, but there's a ton of things to see and do. At least there is when it's not rained off. But none the less, a productive morning, at least for a while. The skies threatened, and eventually delivered but the planes were good and the skies were busy. Highlight? Well, the F-22's of course. The yank's newest and shiniest method of killing foreign people; thrust vectoring, stealth capable zoom buggy, never seen before in the UK. Three of 'em parked in the Stealth Bomber hangars at the back of the airfields, of which the septics had left the doors open, it turned out later because they knew folks were coming miles to see them and wanted to show them off at all times. That's decent of the top yank. And speaking of septics.... I follow my doctor's instruction on what I can and can't eat these days pretty much at all times. This was one of those days where he can, with all possible respect, go and jump in the lake. The Americans from the base were in the spotter compound with oil drum barbies doing proper Air Fete burgers. If you never went to Mildenhall Air Fete, you'll never know. But oh, the food. You didn't take a packup. You didn't need one. The Brit's can't do burgers half like this, they were legend and the Fairford yanks were having a go at it themselves. And with prices at about a quid a throw, the concession stands didn't even bother setting up in the spotter compound. They weren't missed. I had several; might not have done much for my health, but did my spirituality a ton of good. So ! Fairford means rain, and sooner or later I was going to seriously regret bringing my old rainproof that's not quite good or long enough, and was especially going to regret not bringing my waterproof trousers. Army surplus drill trousers aren't the best thing in the world for repelling water. In fact they retain it pretty damned well. My boots are still damp five days later. Folks, it was stair-rods. Torrential monsoon time. Seriously unpleasant weather. If I hadn't have packed a dry pair of skiddies, socks and shorts in the motor, I'd have been a seriously unhappy camper. If I'd have been camping. You know what I mean. Dried out through body heat once, but as I saw the weather turning for a second go, I decided that enough was enough and headed for home. Leaving the field, controlling the motor was patchy at best; I could see folks being towed out already and the show proper hadn't even started; I could predict big problems. As it turned out, by the time I was home, the show was toast. Cancelled. And as it turned out, both days too. They must have been kicking themselves when Sunday turned out to be so warm and dry, but frankly the parking fields were beyond hope; folks were already calling it Glaston-Ford and putting 100,000 people in those swamps would have been a disaster. And on the selfish side, I did managed to get a lot of the grounded planes, a lot of the arrivals, a practise display or two even if I did get drenched and the swines stopped flying for two hours while HM Queen watched a bunch of prancing mannequins in uniform do their stomping about; and got a couple of formal flypasts for the bargain.

Eeeeh. Turned out wet again.

(photo's by me!)

This weekend...

Somewhere in this country is an airshow with my name on it. Always assuming that my surname is "Waddington". Which it isn't but never mind, work with me on this one. Two days of flashy flying, colourful hairyplanes and my mates texting me to tell me how great it is, and how amazing the Vulcan's first public display was. Because, friends and neighbours your scribe is stuck in stinking work, hassling poor tire bloody tourists for petty offences that aren't going to make ANYBODY think they're fighting the good fight in a way that anybody's going to give a toss about; and they've just told me that I can't have Sunday off either. Fuck that. The work-life balance that our tin gods love spouting on about seems more than a little skewed at the moment. Not that I can actually DO jack all at the moment, since I remain languishing on "light duties" while the health service machine creaks from fuck up to fuck up; having discovered that my case "dropped though the middle" when my consultant changed secretaries, they now can't offer me an appointment until September. Bollocks to them too. I am cracking in about minus a hundred out of ten in the "satisfied with my lot at work" chart at the moment; of the three "must do" shows this year that I had lined up, they've managed to squash my chances of doing any of them.

In fact folks, quite frankly, at this moment in time, the service can officially kiss my arse.

The rotten bastards

Years ago, I went to Scouserland for the first time. March 2004 maybe. A whole bunch of folks were there, blurry recollection of the evening seems to involve a chunky lass with an inflateable guitar. Hmmm, classy.


Managed to keep my hubcaps though, which was a good thing; Just after I picked up Christine the Hellhound Honda. Maybe I should have saved myself the hassle there and then and parked the bitchin the Mersey. Hey ho. Anyhoo. There were grumbles at the time amongst the older blokes "there's got to be some decent ale somewhere in this town" as the rotten bunch of bottom feeders made me drink in Flares, Chicago Rock and all the other chain fun pub crapholes in the Cavern District. All of them. Do you realise just how many shit pubs you can fit in a very small space of town, and then cram full of people with curly hair and 'taches who constantly go "ay ay ay" and nick your wheel hubs? Decent ale. Ah, a distant dream that night. But, unbeknownst to us, indeed there was. Only twenty yards from where I was suffering death by rubbish lager. And here it is.




That's the White Star. Decent little boozer as it stands. A bad place to be if you can't stand The Beatles, and it's full of maritime stuff too as befits it's name. Not a great place though, at least not in the context of the town which is so jam packed full of first rate boozers that you're spoiled; The Phillly; The Dispensary; Doc Duncans; The Ship and Mitre; my fav the Baltic Fleet; Roscoe Head, I could write a couple of days off there. In fact I just have. And all that time, it was within the distance I can throw a scrawny little programmer in a shiney shirt while they made me listen to loud musak and drink pisswater lager? Gah, gah and thrice gah!

Annoying...

Devil !!

and....

MORE Devil

Yike !!!

Where Mikey fears to tread....

CLICKY LINKY !

Bummer

Clicky Linky

Meow

Well, that's an expensive day. And a tiring one. For the followers of the hairy black fella, he's just had his yearly MOT and booster jabs, and he's still in perfect health. The lady vet swooned all over him as usual, while he struggled with whether to protest or tart furiously, deciding on a halfway strategy. He's weight is bang on the money at 4.2kg, everything's in perfect working order, his teeth are fine (should think so, he sharpens them on me regularly) and his recent battle damage is healing up better than expectations. Huzzah! Glad one thing in this house works properly.

Slightly more expensive was GLC, back from it's own MOT and service. Ouch. Major non kudos to the purveyor of catalytic converters in town who sold me a duffer a couple of months back. GLC is now running properly for the first time in ages, but the bill was heavy.

Mind you, it's nice to have independent transport again; been reliant on buses, taxies and lifts for the last few days and I do not like it. Not that I have the energy to care at the moment. Managed to get almost precisely no sleep at all last night due to this heat that won't go away, then an early shift with project work that must be completed, but wasn't anyway, gah !! The fun factory is running low on people's commitment at the moment, at least among the folks that hang around me. Early shifts plus no sleep, not a happy camper maketh. And to make matters worse, nobody's coming out to play tonight. Bah.