Flight Humour Poetry

An Ode to the Cessna C-152 Airplane

The Cessna 152 design,
Is not, by any means, sublime,
With clumsy struts, and angled fin,
And fuselage, made out of tin,
A cabin, small, with seats for two,
You really have to know your crew,
For safety’s sake, may God be praised,
The undercarriage can’t be raised,
Full flaps droop down, forty degrees,
Like twin barn doors, into the breeze,
The seats move smoothly, fore and aft,
(If the catch unlocks, this happens fast!)
The cabin vents are curious things,
Like aerosols, stuck in the wings,
They’re firmly fixed, without a doubt,
Until you climb, the they pop out,
These things you’ll recognise, and more,
But what’s the rear view mirror for,
This little ‘plane has given much,
Withstood the student pilot’s touch,
And carried me through miles of sky,
And in her charge I learnt to fly,
She’s no classic, that much is true,
But deep down, she’s great, my 152


The Forgotten Hero

The Forgotten Hero

The old man, stooped and shabby dressed,
With faded ribbons on his chest,
The clipped moustache, still neat, now grey,
A tribute to his yesterday.

He shuffles through the city streets,
Forgotten now, his selfless feats,
“Scramble A Flight!” A memory cries,
And once more, he’s in the skies.

Festooned with kit, and parachutes,
Leather jacket, fur-lined boots,
Sidcot suits and maps and charts,
Cracking jokes, and having larks.

The ops phone rings, and rest is over,
“B flight – Scamble, raid at Dover!”
Swallow tea, the lumbering run,
The Merlin’s running – now where’s the Hun?

Line her up, green light from the tower,
One deep breath, apply full power,
The mighty Merlin’s marvellous sound,
A rumble, bump, then off the ground

Look up sun, then left, then right,
“Close up, red two, and watch your height”
A glint, a flash – they’re just below,
Someone shouts “Tally Ho, Tally Ho!”

Mouth dry with fear, and stomach churning,
A Spit screams down, yellow flames, – Oh God it’s burning!
One in the ring sight, squeeze the tit, feel the shudder,
Hold the deflection, a little more on the rudder

The enemy’s hit, and rolls onto its back,
Spewing out smoke, thick, oily and black,
All of a sudden to the skies empty once more,
And gone in a heartbeat, the engines of war

Back in the mess there’s a binge in full swing,
Young men getting plastered with whiskey and gin,
The CO’s passed out, the adj is unstable,
Two drunken lads dance a waltz on the table

The horrors of war, overlooked for a night,
Tomorrow’s soon enough to get back to the fight
When once again hundreds of nineteen year old boys,
Will exchange a Spitfire for childhood and toys

So, now, old man, who gave your youth,
Must face the cold and ugly truth,
That battles fought in angry skies,
Have earned you but a pack of lies,

This England that you fought to save,
Has turned it’s back on those who gave,
A paltry pension, breadline existence,
Whilst thieves and thugs receive assistance

Old man with ribbons on your chest,
Clipped grey moustache, and shabby dressed
You’re not forgotten, you will not die,
Remembered still by us who fly

Mark Charlwood
06 June 1986


Flight Poetry

My Big Fat Virgin

I’ve been away from home so long, I strayed so far away,
I’m lonely, sad, and dead inside, I hate to feel this way,
I miss the town, I miss the pub, I miss the small town style,
I miss those happy Friday nights, I miss your loving smile,

So now I seek some solace, an escape from where I am,
To find some secret pleasures, gain release and burst the dam,
Looking for a big fat virgin, to take my blues away,
I’m hunting for that virgin, need to join her now, today

So big fat virgin, lift me up, away towards the stars,
And head me out to Neptune, or Jupiter or Mars,
Blow my mind, just take me home, inside you I float to heaven,
You big bad girl, you take me high, you mighty seven four seven




Glider – The First Flight

It was a crisp cold October morning in 1972, as my Father and I climbed into his Morris Minor Traveller, to head off to Crowborough. I was almost hopping from foot to foot with excitement, yet my stomach was also performing somersaults, probably due to the number of butterflies flying madly around it.

Today was THE day. This was the day that I would experience the utter joy and exhilaration of flight. And the start of a love affair that was to last my entire life.

We set off nice and early, as we had to drive to Crowborough in order to meet up with Mr Kirby, who was the Chief Flying Instructor at RAF West Malling, the home of 618 Volunteer Gliding Squadron.

My Father had met Bernard Kirby whilst conducting his daily commute to work. East Grinstead is a terminal station, and my Father, always a creature of habit, chose to sit in the same seat every day.

His regular companion, who always sat opposite Dad, happened to notice one day that my Father was reading a book about flying.

He asked “are you interested in flying Alan?” My father responded that he was. Bernard then generously offered to take Dad up in a glider.

Knowing that I was aircraft crazy, my Dad asked if his 13 year old son could come as well. The answer was yes.

Having arrived at Crowborough, we all piled into Bernard’s blue VW Beetle, and he drove us to West Malling.

We arrived at the time of the Ugandan crisis, when President Idi Amin had deported thousands of Ugandan Asians. Many had arrived in Britain, and a lot of the old military quarters were being used to house these poor unfortunate souls. Even as a 13 year old kid, I could still see the desperation and sadness in their listless eyes. It still haunts me now, in those quiet contemplative moments.

Mr Kirby parked his car by the hangar, and we all got into the land rover. Well, my Dad and Mr Kirby got into the Land Rover. I was unceremoniously loaded into the back, and we bounced our way across the grassy tussocks to the launch point, where a number of gliders had been seemingly abandoned.

Getting out of the Landie, I felt a bit disoriented. There was a lot going on, and everyone seemed to know what to do, or where to stand except me.

I stood to the back, and watched as my Dad was strapped into a large tow seat side by side glider with an open cockpit. It was fitted with two jaunty little windscreens directly in front of each pilot, reminiscent of a 1930s sports car.

Bernard hopped in beside him, and I watched, fascinated, as he zipped through the Pre take off checks. In short order, a cable was attached to the hook on the underside of the fuselage.

A few calls later, and the glider suddenly swooped forwards, accelerating at a very brisk rate, and rotating into what seemed to me to be A very steep climb.

I watched as the aircraft got to the apex of its climb, and then saw the cable drop, it’s little drouge chute flapping and gyrating like a wounded bird as it fell to earth.

A lad wearing a blue uniform approached me. He was about my age, but was resplendent in his RAF blues, oddly contrasting with a pair of white training shoes.

He shyly asked me which squadron I was with. I stared at him dumbly. Squadron? “I’m here with my Dad. What do you mean which Squadron.”

He replied that he was with Crowborough Squadron of the ATC


ATC he confirmed. The Air Training Corps. I’m here to do a gliding day.

How much does it cost, I asked, fearful that it would be well beyond my meagre pocket money.

20p a week subscription.

I was stunned. I could join up and get to fly for 20 p a week.

Throughout the conversation I was tracking my Father in the glider. It was now curving round, it’s air brakes open, as it sliced its way though the air, I could hear it sighing, and then it was down, rumbling to a stop about 100 yards from the launch point.

I saw my Dad get out, and asked him what it was like. He grinned enthusiastically, and said it was fascinating.

I know now with hindsight, that my Dear old Dad was putting a brave face on it. I believe that he was terrified, but didn’t want to influence me. In later. Years, I would ask my Dad if he would come flying with me. I have instructor ratings, and have amassed hundreds of hours, but he never flew again after that event.

Standing with Dad, I continued to wait patiently for my turn to get airborne. I didn’t have to wait long!

Another Air Cadet, a lad of about 16 briskly marched up, and asked me to “come this way please”

Flinging a dismissive and airy wave at my Dad, I strolled nonchalantly after the other chap, my relaxed stroll disguising my inner turmoil.

Would I be scared – shit myself? Would I be airsick?

“That’s your ‘plane” said my guide, indicating a very elderly glider that looked like it had been designed by Leonardo Da Vinci. It had an open cockpit, but the seats were arranged one in front of the other. Small curved windshields protected the pilots from the slipstream. The wing was a huge slab, mounted onto a short pylon, so that the rear cockpit sat under it.

The front cockpit was therefore totally exposed.

A lanky man wandered up the frail craft, and looked intently at me. “Are you Mark?” He asked.

I nodded dumbly back at him, my mouth dry, and my stomach doing backflips.

“My names Colin, and I will be taking to up. Have you ever flown before?”

” No Sir” I responded.

“Nothing to worry about – its great fun. Come here, and lets get you in.”

I walked up to the side of the beast, and gazed into the cockpit; it was ancient! It only had two dials – I was expecting more. It also had two vertical tubes mounted on the instrument panel.

“Right, stand beside the cockpit, and swing your right leg in. Stand on the seat, then bring your left leg in. Don’t step on the controls or cables, and keep your feet on the small floorboards, or you will damage the hull”

I gingerly climbed in and sat down, and Colin swiftly strapped me in, and pulled the straps tightly.

The glider wobbled about a bit, as Colin eased himself into the rear cockpit, and he continued his commentary which, whilst I don’t remember it word for word, its almost the same as the patter that I give to others as I strap in.

“You’ll see in front of you two dials. The one on the left is the Air Speed Indicator, or ASI, the one on the right is the altimeter. In the middle are two tubes. This is called a Cosim Variometer. It has a green bead in one tube, and a red bead in the other. If the red bead goes up, we are sinking. If the green bead goes up, we are climbing.”

(I was later to discover that the Mark 3 has a built in rate of sink, and I very rarely saw the green bead float up its tube, except during take off)

Colin continued “On the left side of the panel is a yellow knob. When we get to the top of the launch, you’ll feel the nose lower, as I push the stick forwards to take the load off of the cable. The red lever on the left cockpit wall is the lever to extend the spoilers”

“The stick moves the flight controls. Push it forward, and the aircraft will dive, pull it back, and the nose will go up. Moving it to the left will cause the aircraft to roll to the left, and moving it right will start us rolling to the right. The rudder pedals are used to help us in the turns. Have you got that?”

“Yes Sir”

Colin called out to the Cadet loitering near the aircraft “wing up six”. The lad dutifully lifted the wingtip a few inches, and Colin began checking the controls. The stick waggled around between my legs, and the rudder pedals moved. It seemed that Colin was satisfied that the aircraft was functional, as he called to another cadet to bring a cable to our machine.

Kneeling down, the cadet requested “open” and I saw the yellow knob moved, and felt a metallic action under my seat. “Close” the knob retracted back into its recess in the panel. The boy then pulled on the cable to the rear, and I felt the recoil of the mechanism opening. I asked Colin what was happening, and he explained that the back release was being checked to make sure that if the manual release failed, the glider would still disconnect from the cable.

The cadet then reconnected the cable to the glider, and the rest of the controls were checked.

I was told to “follow through” on the stick and rudder, and he would explain what was happening.

The wingman now lifted the wing so that the glider was sitting with the wings level.

“Take up slack” called Colin. The cadet at the wing started waving his hand slowly, and within a few seconds, I noticed a ripple in the grass, as the winch was pulling the cable taut. The glider moved forwards a foot or so, and then stopped.

“Ready?” Said Colin

“Yes” I squeaked.

Looking to the left, I could see my Dad watching, and I gave him a nervous thumbs up, and saw him smile in response.

“All out!” Called Colin, and a couple of seconds later, the glider suddenly accelerated, faster than any car I had ever been in. A few bounces and rumbles, and all of a sudden we were airborne!

Pure unadulterated fucking magic. The aircraft rotated into a steep climbing angle, and the wind howled and whistled around the cockpit. I looked at the altimeter, and saw that we were approaching 1300 feet. Awesome! At almost 1500 feet, I felt my stomach lurch as the nose dipped, and then I heard and felt a metallic bang, as the cable was released, and the noise dropped to a ruffle. I could hear Colin quite clearly.

I looked out, and spread below me was the Weald of Kent, and the city of London. “Would you like to fly it” asked Colin? “When I hand control to you, I will say You Have Control. You will respond I have control. That way we both know who is flying”

I took hold of the stick, and I heard those magical words for the first time in my life “you have control”.

“I have control” the stick tremored slightly as Colin relaxed his grip. “Gently pull back on the stick”. I eased the column backwards, and the nose slowly climbed above the horizon, and the wind noise muted further. “Now gently relax the stick and allow the nose to drop”

Following the instruction, I allowed the nose to drop and the altimeter began unwinding. The speed crept up, and then Colin asked me to level her out.

I was allowed to do a bank in each direction, and then Colin said ” I have control”, and we commenced our descent back to the airfield.

Talking me through continuously, Colin explained the approach, and the use of the spoilers to aid the a curacy of the landing.

The aiming point was steady in the windshield, slowly floating up towards me, until, at the last minute, the ground rushed by in a blur, and with a bump and a rumble we were down, coming to rest a few yards from where we took off.

I thought my head would fall in half, so wide was my grin.

I clambered out, and thanked Colin, and wandered back to Dad.

I was euphoric for days, and promptly joined my local Air Cadet squadron, 1343 (East Grinstead).

My next exposure to flying was as a student pilot at Royal Air Force Kenley, the home of the mighty 615 Volunteer Gliding Squadron.


Wisper 705

Wisper 705

A Wisper 705 Electric Bike

Electric Transport

FWD Hub Motor

FWD Hub Motor

Typical Front Wheel Drive Hub Motor