Monday 20 May 2013 07:24 UTC
This is the place for anything not connected with aviation. Strict rules of engagement apply. The moderators' decision is final.
Yes, go and open it Saturday morning (including over lunchtime) for you to watch your own personal airshow (with a pair of binocs to do a neighbourhood watch for infringers - RA(T) down to ground level unusually which will probably catch some) and sit anywhere between mid Channel, Selsey, Farnborough, Fairoaks to Windsor and then anywhere north and north west of Heathrow for quite a way and over to Brize
I'm still looking for a reason to raise a glass and light up a fat one.
Scientifically known as Dianthus caryophyllus a historically rich and meaningful flower. With its scientific name dianthus roughly translating to "flower of love" or "flower of the gods", depending on the source, this flower is one that has been revered for centuries. Just thinking aloud
Before judging others make sure you are perfect, Johnny May 2012
If it dries up enough I shall be hauling load after load of horses**t from my house to my neighbours'. If you fancy trolling over to lend a hand (or even provide me with an excuse not to do it), feel free.
The smell of the cohiba would provide a welcome alternative, so wherever you end up, could you make it upwind?
Flyingmanker: self-appointed arbiter of what you may write about, as nominated by Timothy.
The rehearsal over the Llyn Peninsula and RAF Mona was quite a show '60' formation and 'EiiR' formation. 85 aircraft expected. Of course some of the locals have been quipping that Saturday is the perfect day for John Betjamins poem to be fulfilled. Tool up some of those Typhoons and Tornado's passing directly over Slough Town Centre -
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
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