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.
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.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 6:38 pm
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