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Francis Meyrick

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Everything posted by Francis Meyrick

  1. When I was a penniless student, I used to frequent this bar in County Kerry, Old Ireland. I'd go down on my old Matchless motorcycle for the weekend. Well, if I did it right, I didn't have to buy any beer. Just tell a story, pause, coming up to the punchline... and mutter.... ("Lordie, I'm THIRSTY...").... and a full pint glass of Guinness would magically appear in front of me. It got to where the landlord would ask me to call ahead if i was coming down, and then he'd round up his customers, and (way-hay)... three o'clock in the morning, well after closing time at 11.30 pm, we'd still be at it. Laughing our a... off at the foibles of the human race. No target too sacred. Sitting in the dark. Then Garda Murphy would knock on the door. We'd all recoil. Oh, no! Busted! But, no, in HE would slink, for a drop o' the barley. So I confess to telling whopperseeeee stories, all my subversive, anti-authoritarian Life.
  2. Oh. So I’m a chicken, eh? I’ve been called worse. (early, for one) There goes the neighborhood. And my reputation. For what it’s worth. Which, admittedly, is not-a-lot. Especially ( I whisper this) after that horrendous gay bar fracas in San Francisco. ( Here's that link.) Um. I’ll admit… I always thought it was better to be a LIVE CHICKEN than a DEAD DUCK. That’s what I faithfully taught all my many fixed wing and heli-whopper students over all those years. I’m sure somebody half smart (Yoo-hoo! Anybody here? No? I didn’t think so…) ...could extrapolate a Freudian Angst precursor from that statement. But I say it has kept me alive over 44 years of Aviation. And, to my knowledge, all my former students. Nobody hurt. So, okay, I’m a chicken. But a live, pecking, shitting, clucking, bug chasing honest-to-goodness, working class chicken. Spreading the chicken pooh. And if only that f@#k’n Peking Duck would quit chasing me around trying to roger me (dirty beast), life would be idyllic. I don’t know if you know, but in my 87th incarnation, I think it was, I came back as a happy-go-lucky Penguin. In Antarctica. Yeah, I know, I’d have looked funny being a sour-faced Hobo penguin pushing a stolen shopping trolley through downtown Manhattan. Smoking a stogey. But it wasn’t too bad an experience, really. Until that nutcase head-slapper turned up. The full story is described here. Also, better a chicken than a GOOSE. Ever been up against a truly Mad Goose? (No, sorry, your EX mother-in-law doesn’t count). Your comment was a welcome subversive stimulus (Psst!....there are those here who will not be pleased with you) ...to go and finish a story about a goose. A loose goose. A PSYCHOTIC loose goose. Rescued by my (Scottish) wifey of 24 years. Who is on record as saying I should be grateful for the massive feed bills and the vet’s bills for her 53 rescued animals. (FIFTY-THREE). Because, in her words, if she didn’t have a weakness for rescuing sick animals, and nursing them back to health, she would never have married ME. Duh. Eh, what?? (Oh, and it’s a “work-in-progress”, she says) So if you want to waste some more valuable time drinking Moonshine with us forum riff-raff, and outcasts from polite Vertical society, the Moggy Untouchables, and further rot your brain with a (99% true) scribble about (Scottish accent) “a PSYCHOTIC loose goose aboot the hoose”, then read on. You damn Turkey. Here’s the link. Humbly and subversively yours, Moggy
  3. Thanks for clearing that up. So... what's he thinking BEHIND that point-of-duty thinking?? I'm thinking he IS thinking. Don't you think?
  4. @UH60L-IP Some thought, but I know you wouldn't. I work surrounded by all sorts of riff-raff, including lots of low life current and active military. I use the terminology from the point of view of the likes of the great Mr Saul Alinsky, mentor in radical LEFT-LEFT-LEFT wing politics, and devoted Godfather to the Clintons and Little Barry and sundry other, impressionable, weak minded Statist types. ("put ME in charge, and I PROMISE YOU it will be okay....speech?....you want a SPEECH?.... that WILL cost you $250,000.... and HERE...are my demands.... everybody MUST.... CHEER ME !!!!!......especially when the cameras are ON....) I've been amazed just how many times I have heard very similar stories from so many different people. It's like a given that if you are the Clinton Clan, or the Oblah-ma Cult, you have to find ways of quietly (or not) signalling your (veiled, perhaps) contempt for the US Military. And everybody else. Now, have you ever wondered, what "the lone Marine" is actually thinking, when he salutes? When Old Bill would come along, fresh from popping (expensive) White House cigars in um.... delicate... places ordinarily frowned upon by us ordinary plebs? When Missy "Mutton dressed as Lamb" Hillary parades by, nose in the air, ("why are YOU speaking to ME?") carrying her latest snazzy 6-cent "world politics re-set button"?. Her, the acknowledged genius and authority on matters of History, Free Enterprise Economics, Human Nature, and Inheritance Tax avoidance?? (which she championed for OTHER people...) "TRUST ME" I have. Here he is, saluting, sworn to give his life, if necessary, to protect the recipients of his crisp salute. And he would. Undoubtedly. No second thoughts. 100% for sure. I scribbled a scribble about that Lone Marine. Maybe he'll read it one day, when he's got time. In the can, perhaps. I salute HIM. He has my admiration. Rome is burning, and Emperor Nero is basking in his Magnificence, and goofing off playing Golf. His would-be successors are already jostling shamelessly to get the best position in front of the compliant cameras. The false Media Circus, bought and paid for, spineless and compliant, scrupulously avoids the tough questions. And the lone Marine salutes the Small, Small Man. He is well aware of the thinly veiled contempt, but carries on regardless. His is not to ask for 'why'. His is just to dream and die. The full story is here.
  5. @ Nearly retired..... Great story. Good photos too. I KNEW there was gonna be some good sling stories. Now I'm waiting for a vermin-critter story. Creepy-crawley. Sllither-slither. I've got a snake story I need to go and scribble one day. @ Aeroscuttle.... So you're saying you're happy and full of.... proud of your Shitzu?
  6. Uh-oh. There goes the neighborhood. Shhh.... don't tell anybody. It'll spoil my image. Speaking of image, I have decided, after much soul searching, to change my avatar to a self portrait. That's me in my alternate uniform. I think some people call that "coming out"? I hope you like it. PS: You can see how much I struggle with my weight and balance calculations. I tried doing a steep pull up one day, but that was BAD idea. PPS: before Aeroscout asks, yes, smart-ass, I DO keep my sandwiches up there.
  7. @ Ali818 (oops...) It's all Aeroscout's fault! He started it! Don't mind the "wascally Wussians" and the "Wicked Wooskies" bits. We know the Russians are not really Rascally. Or Wicked. Or drink Wodka. Much. Or are you by any chance proud to be a Wicked Russian who drinks lots of Wodka? I think you'll have to post a photo, so we can all decide. If you're wicked. Or not. PS: @ aeroscuttle I think Lindsey just implied you, Sir, might be a "diggety bomber". How does that feel? How do you do it? Especially the "diggety" part? I'm curious. I was raised an Altar Boy, so you have to bear with me.
  8. @ aeroscuttle you're being picky again. He could be sensitive, you know. Here, let me try and help: it is clear his beef is that they weren't polished Polish. I don't think he has anything against Polish polish, but I could be wrong. . See? Now I have polished that one off for you, I might finish by suggesting they were poles apart. You need to be broadminded to understand these kind of Pole-itics. Thank you. I'll shut up now.
  9. ...I'll say it. Let me say it. Please. Lemme.... which is why elephants have flat feet, right? To stamp out flaming quakkers....?? (gawd... really) PS: (scratching head) How did we get from "Klunk!" in flight, to "Fire Quakkers"....?? Hummmmm.......
  10. @ Flying Piggy Hmmm.... If I heard this once, I heard the same story a dozen times from different eye witnesses in Iraq. I'm with your platoon sergeant. Tell him I'll buy him a beer - anytime, anywhere. 1) Bushy baby turns up in Iraq. Behaves the exact same, whether cameras are "On" or cameras "OFF". Same guy. Seems to enjoy chatting and joking with the troops. Loves it when somebody cracks a good one he hasn't heard before. Falls around laughing. Genuine. Everybody likes him. Appears very human. What you see is what you get. Clumsy Bush-isms. But you gotta laugh. Dammit, he laughs at himself. Genuinely moved by soldiers' deaths and debilitating injuries. 2) Missy Hillary. Former cheerleader. Former? Still craves the adulation. Mutton dressed as lamb. Charges -straight faced- $250.000 to hear her speeches. What's that per word??? What kind of stratospheric ego propels a human being to elevate themselves to such esoteric levels of Pride & Haughty Arrogance? Disdain of snotty little people, like mere lowlife Military Platoon Sergeants?? Dubious grasp of Economics & History. Free Enterprise? Small Government? What's that??? Wants more BIG Government, more taxes, more control, more HER in charge. Turns up in... Iraq. Another photo op. Stands with her people, unsmiling, disinterested, bored. LIGHTS!!! CAMERAS!! ACTION!!! (BIG SMILE!) :) Serves troops. (BIG SMILE!) :) CUT!!! THAT'S IT!!! IT'S A WRAP! (Whispers of awe.......WHERE DID THE F#@K'N SMILE GO????) (Blank expression) (goes back to her own people) (You can SERVE YOURSELVES, YOU GUYS...) HUH!? Don't just believe me: Ask around, the many guys who witnessed these two totally different personalities. PS: Confession: It's against my attempted peace loving world view, and my self imposed attempt to walk in harmony (Hummmmmm.....) with all living creatures, BUT... I YELL ABUSE at her on the TV too...
  11. My tiny, non-Teutonic mind is enjoying wondering how some might define or describe "basic airwork"...? Coffee, sofa, doughnuts, TV, I-phone, play on the Net.... occasionally go for a tootle around the sky?
  12. Good question. Funnily enough, I equally enjoy both solo flying and pax. But they are entirely different aviation experiences. If you are lucky enough to have a happy chappy beside you, the flight is a pleasure. Just yesterday I thoroughly enjoyed myself, discovering a fellow sufferer from a rare but highly embarrassing disease I suffer from. I wonder if it's genetic. Or related in some way to negative I.Q. What happens is, I tend to gesticulate excitedly, whilst illustrating some wild old story about Russian hookers or sumthin', and then knock over people's beer glasses. Coffee cups, all that sort of stuff. Fair game. I've done it all my life. People that know me will (sigh) and then warn you to quietly move drinking vessels out of my reach. The fine lady at our base knows me for years, and she will tell you not to let me anywhere near the coffee maker either. Anyway, it turned out this charming gentleman suffers from the same affliction. Except he had introduced a whole new dimension. Really? I said. tell us. He looked kinda sheepish, but then he explained that he was a Senior Medic, and he was often sitting around with other office people. Lots of keyboards, computers, important papers. Now he likes mixer cups. What? Mixer cups. You mix up fruit drinks, with yoghurt and energy drinks, and milk, and all sorts of high protein stuff. Then you shake it extremely vigorously, and drink the resulting concoction. For your health. Unless you don't. Put it this way, he said, if you don't screw the lid on tight enough,, then you spend the next hour apologizing profusely to the foreman, and everybody else, and cleaning health food out of keyboards and computers, off the ceiling, and out of people's ears... (He was very quiet while I laughed my ass off..,) Once I had finished laughing (and once I had re-acquired straight & level), I asked him what we should NAME this disease. Seeing as I now knew there were at least TWO sufferers in this world, I guessed there had to be more. Right? So him being a Medic and all that, what did he think we should call it? This worthy gentleman took thirty seconds of deep thought, and then his face lit up: "CPDL" What!? "CPDL!" What does that mean? "Compulsive Public Dexterity Loss" !! Brilliant mind. Just like that. No wonder he was a Medic. Awesome. So you see the joy of flying passengers. As for solo... Back in the eighties, I used to take an old biplane all over Europe. Non-radio. I couldn't afford one. Wonderful fun. Non-radio into major airports. Get a slot time, and watch for the green flares. ATC (mostly) loved it. I did, anyway. Long hours, all on my owney-oh, having the time of my life. Communing with Nature, and reflecting that Julius Cesar, Alexander the Great, Pontius Pilate and Guy Fawkes all thought they were hot shits, but NONE of them could FLY. Would I do it all again? Including the bumps? Hell, yes. Flying is wonderful, WITH or WITHOUT passengers. Unless there are cats about.
  13. Who was your most difficult, awkward, ungrateful SOB passenger? Most frustrating, unruly cargo? If you ask my buddy Peter (my hero) he will tell you (quietly) (over a beer) of the time he dreamed up this novel R22-get-rich-quick scheme. All on his ownsome. He was Down Under, and he started going around these Australian sheep farms with his Robbo, His job? Searching for sheep who had wandered off. Find 'em. Land. Jump out. (R-22 turning' and burnin'...). Run like hell. Catch sheep. Hog tie sheep. Place struggling, unhappy sheep in R-22 passenger sheet. Fasten seatbelt. Fly sheep back to farmer. Collect $75. Clean out R-22. (...) Repeat same entire sequence. Ka-Chingggg!!!! Brilliant scheme. Until the day he retired -just like that- from the sheep retrieval business. (Peter shivers in the telling. Takes another drink. Stiff one) (lowers his voice) He had caught this really BIG, moody old ewe. She was a tough old broad, well used to her own independence, and she was not just gonna idly obey Peter's passenger brief. Like hell. Mid-flight, in the cruise, 2,000 feet, she not only BUST her ties, she wriggled out from under the seat belt. Peter will give you a really accurate first-person description of what it's like fighting a really, really pissed orf sheep running amok on the flight deck of an R-22 at 2,000 feet in the cruise. Talk about unusual attitudes, semi inverted, etc. Not good. Yours truly, not exactly the Einstein of the Helicopter Fraternity, suffered for a very long flight at the hands of the dirtiest, smelliest, most disgusting African you can possibly imagine. Crazy man brought TEARS to my eyes. That bad. Here's that (true) insight into the aroma of one of my worst ever passengers.... A Certain Rich Aroma So, what's your story? Let's hear it!
  14. @ hand grenade You gotta be careful there, mate. Lordie. So my buddy, big, genial, cheerful, comes stomping into the narrow trailer wot passes for our base pilot crew room. His path is blocked by another unknown stranger-visiting pilot, bending over the table, writing. My buddy wishes to get past, but there is not enough room between the tatty faux-leather sofa and the greasy wall. The pilot blocking his path is...um.... sturdily built. Put it this way, my buddy's path is positively blocked. My buddy raises his hands to face height, and wiggles his fingers in that way. You know, if you were a prisoner in a cell, and this officer dude walks in with a wicked grin, wearing blue rubber gloves, flexing his fingers....that way.... you would know it just ain't your day. My buddy seems to be hesitating between grabbing the obstacle's HIPS, or squeezing BUTT, or....Lord Knows. He's in a real happy mood. I, for my part, am sitting in full view of the sturdy pilot, who is looking at me, so I don't quite know HOW to handle imminent catastrophe. I just kind of LOOK. At my buddy. Something in my expression causes him to PAUSE, at the last second. He looks at me. he looks at the back of the head of the person ahead of him. He (very slowly) leans around and checks, and this very nice LADY (very, very nice) SMILES at him. "Am I in your way?" My buddy kind of jumps a whole foot in the air, I sigh. Afterwards, he thanks me profusely. I have to ask him: "Errr... I didn't know what to say, so I just kind of LOOKED. What did you see in my face...?" Without hesitation, my buddy, ruefully, says: "Horror..."
  15. Or, quoting from the Philosophical Works of some dunderhead named..... Mmmm....Foggy? "When in doubt, Chicken Out" based on the parabolic inverse hypothesis: "Better a Live Chicken than a Dead Duck" (Quack! Quack!)
  16. And I did refer above to that weird 'thin cake top layer' effect, early in the morning, when the fine sand seems to contentedly lie there, not bothering to fly up into your disc, and then SUDDENLY does the rolling brown-out thing, low along the ground. Maybe something to do with the early morning dew kind of forming a thin top layer, which holds it all together, until... it doesn't anymore. Here's a preview of scribble I'm still working on that incorporates a (100% true) description of that low rolling brown-out effect in rather (um) trying and embarrassing circumstances. Not our finest hour... "Thus we were flying along quite happily, on a beautiful –windless- Arizona early morning, me and two Patrol Sergeants. In an OH58 helicopter. We had successfully completed a Mission, and we were on our way home. One of the Sergeants, well respected, big tough cop, remarked that we were not far from his parents’ house, and could we take a detour? Sure… no problem. A few minutes later, as we banked overhead the remote homestead, he was busy extolling Mama’s Apple Pies. Apparently there was nothing in the world that compared to Mama’s home baked Apple Pies with whipped cream. We all started licking our lips, and feeling this terrible hankering for Apple Pie. From that state of digestive juices flowing, it was a small step to the suggestion that we should go land, and say “Hi!” to Mama, and maybe, just maybe, coincidentally, a minor issue, not the motivating factor at all, we MIGHT just… get some Apple Pie. Soon we were on final approach. I noticed Mama had her washing out on the line. “Look!”, I said, wisely, “we’d better land away a bit so we don’t blow dust over her washing!” Everybody agreed that this was a very fine observation, denoted great Moggy Airmanship and skill, and was most definitely the right and proper thing to do. So… I landed quite a bit away. Really, quite a bit. Unfortunately… The sand there was really, really fine. And really, really dry. Underneath. And I have this theory that the overnight moisture kind of forms a very thin cake layer on top. Kind of holds it together. You won’t believe me, I swear, until you go through this experience yourself one day. But then you’ll think back to this story, and you’ll say: “Damn! That old bugger was right…!” What happens is that all is fine and dandy, never a worry, Murray, as you descend down through four feet or so. Barely a dust particle bothers to meet you. Then, all of a sudden… I think your downwash finally busts through that thin cake topping, and suddenly these rolling waves of brown dust spread out in low, concentric circles, faster and faster. With no wind at all, it was truly awesome to see the waves stay LOW, and just race… straight for Mama’s clean washing, hanging out to dry. I wish I’d had a tape recorder. The Intercom was… well, total terror would be a fair description. “No!” “Oh! NO-NO-NO…!” “Oh, sh*t! Oh. FUKKKKK….!” We were that low it seemed better just to set her down, flat pitch, roll throttle off, and just hope… Nope… Mama’s gonna have to re-do her washing. Kind of a nice, soft brown color though? Maybe she might like it? Nope. Guess what, who is that, striding out the door, fit to be tied, BROOM in hand? Marching straight for the helicopter, mad as hell, waving the broom ominously!!?? What, you’re gonna beat us with that thing…!? No, we didn’t get any apple pie. WE DID NOT GET ANY APPLE PIE. Zip. Nada. I got a coffee I think. And one hell of a longggg lecture from Mama. Three grown men, all sitting sheepish as hell, naughty schoolboy style, staring awkwardly at the floor, whilst Mama… expressed her feelings. I’d never quite seen that expression on the tough old Sergeant’s face. Kind of… juvenile guilt. Caught peeing on the rose bush. Wishing SO MUCH it was over. Sorry. Very, very, very sorry. We’ll NEVER, ever do it again. HONEST. Not quite… the triumphant arrival at Mama’s house we had planned on…"
  17. here's a scribble on BLUE-OUT. And, seriously (for a second, anyway) it has killed a bunch of guys. Including a buddy of mine. Moggy's Tunaboat Helicopter Manual - Chapterv 3 G - Descending to a Log
  18. @ Aeroscuttle.... that's dumb. That line's never gonna work. How can I be sitting at that bar, and say to that abovementioned luscious floozy: "Sweetheart, do you want to see my Monkey?" ...without getting smacked in the visage? Huh!? (Never mind, asking her if she wants to go for a RIDE on my.... you get the problem, right??)
  19. Posted a story about a terrifying, real life Emergency I encountered in Africa, for which there are no published Procedures. No simulator training, nada. There is simply no help available to us front line jockeys, and, believe me, it was a harrowing event. I lost a lot of sleep over it. Any suggestions would be gratefully received. Thank you. Humbly yours Moggy Here is the link
  20. Wicked Wooskies? A suitcase helicopter???? Do you own one? I want one too! So bad! Talk about bragging rights. Imagine chatting up some floozy in a bar. No more: “Sweetheart, do you want to see my etchings?” Instead: “Do you want to see my suitcase helicopter?” (Or, after a few drinks: “Hey, honey….! HE-HE-HE…! Do you want to go for a RIDE in my suitcase?”) Un-be-lievable. Imagine casually rolling up to LAX International with one of those. Just for the sheer unadulterated hell of it. Sneakily place it on the metal detector…. RINGGGG! That would give Security a caniption. Probably evacuate the whole Terminal. Cool… Awe-some. Whatever will they think of next? A handbag Rottweiler? (“They rushed this guy into the E.R., but he was in a really bad way. Turned out he tried to snatch this lady’s handbag, but little did he know… etc, etc.”) Is it any wunda those wicked Wooskies dwink lots of Wodka? Imagine being the factory TEST PILOT for one of those things? The proud inventor would call in Wladimir, and say: “Wladimir, today is your lucky day! You get to fly my new zuitcase helicopter!” What would Wladimir think to himself? I know what I’d think. Brave Wooskie. I think I’d be trying to be making an excooskie. Hummmm.....
  21. Okay, Aeroscuttle, I gotta ask you this, Mister Character : what IS that dangerous looking Heath Robinson funkle thing lurking in your avatar? I mean, it can't fly, surely? What, you actually SIT in that contraption and take to the endangered skies? Never! Or is it one of those Bowflex muscle developers for emerging, post pubescent former altar boys trying desperately to grow beards and biceps? Is there a hidden message here? A statement? A confession, even? Subliminal communication on a lower level? Just idly wonderin'.... PS: @ NAES 32...no, 12...., sorry 213! Don't mind us, we do this sort of thing all the time. Avbug will come trotting along shortly, he enjoys taking offense, and then we all pick on him. It's kind of a forum cultural thing. Sorta.
  22. @ cburg Nice, honest tribute. Poor old Robin. That is beyond sad. I've been trying to write my feelings on that one, and I just can't seem to get it down the way I want. After all the good he did. After all the laughter, and the gags, and the sensitivity, it seems such a waste that this man, this feeling, sensitive soul, should die such a lonely, pitiful, unhappy death. I would have wished him to grow old gracefully, suck the cup dry, drain the last dregs, and slide sideways into the grave, giggling hysterically, and making us laugh right along with him. All things are born, all things mature, all things decay, all things die. It is only change. I truly believe that what I call the Great Cosmic Kindness, that surrounds us, welcomes our feeble efforts at understanding. We should never despair. Poor old boy. Farewell, Robin Williams. Thanks for sharing. Thanks for making us laugh. My Dance in the Clouds
  23. High speed pursuit, lots of sirens, chopper overhead, drama & confusion. Just another day at the office. Dispatcher & patrol commander are querying pursuing officer over the radio. They want the License Plate. Pursuing cop (sounding harassed): "I can't read it...!" Insistent requests. Pursuing cop: "I can't read it...!!" Even more insistent requests. Pursuing cop: "I can't read it... HIS BALLS ARE IN THE WAY!!! Silence on the frequency. Momentary pause. A million tiny minds are trying to work that one out. Pursuing cop (sounds kind of squeaky): "Errrrr..... I meant to say, his TOW HITCH is in the way..."
  24. Welcome! Break a leg! Just don't listen to a word I say, and you'll be alright.
  25. 1990's Tuna Boat Cocktail party... crashed. By a midget. Of Helicopters and Humans (30) "A Mental Midget" Do Donkeys like bananas? Just askin'....
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