Category Archives: Humour

Snowy Saturday Update

Regular readers of my literary meanderings will know that I am partial to a good cup of coffee whilst sharing my happy, yet jaundiced view of life. Hopefully, you will have noticed that I always try and put a comedic spin on everything I write. I have enjoyed humour and comedy since I was an infant.

I recall sitting on my Dad’s lap in the mid 1960s, listening to the radio on Sunday lunchtimes with him.

In most matters my father was quite a serious man. A highly skilled engineer, in both communications and electro-mechanical disciplines, but his sense of humour was, to put it mildly, weird and wonderful.

And so the development of my comedy muscle was exercised by listening to the Goons, Hancock’s Halfhour, The Navy Lark, The Clithero Kid and many more.

My sense of humour was further nourished by watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus, The Goodies, The Kenny Everett Radio Show, Kenny Everett on TV, –  and then the fantastic Young Ones, Bottom, Blackadder, The Fast Show.

So my sense of humour is by necessity somewhat offbeat, and sometimes is quite dark and black – as I believe in the old adage that its always good to laugh at misfortune, even if it’s someone elses.

Anyway, I thought you would enjoy my account below.

Whilst I don’t have much hair left, I do like to go to an old-fashioned gents barber shop, rather than an androgynous “salon” where a haircut can evaporate a sum equivalent to the National Debt in a matter of seconds.

However, whilst my tonsurial consultant is a traditional gents barber, it doesnt prevent him from engaging in conversations and freely sharing his opinions with me whilst he’s buzz cutting my head.

So, there I  was a couple of months ago, getting a haircut prior to departing on a short holiday trip to Rome. When I mentioned the trip to the barber he responded:

“Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded & dirty and full of insane drivers. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking Alitalia”  I replied. “We got a great rate!”

“Alitalia?”  he exclaimed. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are tired, their flight attendants are even older, and they’re always late. So, where are you staying in Rome?”

Sighing, I explained “We’ll be at the downtown International Marriott.”

“That dump! That’s the worst hotel in the city” He replied. “The rooms are small, the service is surly and they’re overpriced. So, whatcha doing when you get there?”

“Well, I am planning on going to the Vatican and  hope to see the Pope.” I replied.

“That’s rich,” he laughed. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Jeez I wish you  good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, I went into his small shop to have my regular haircut. The barber asked me about my trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” I explained, “not only were we on time in one of Alitalia’s brand new aircraft, but it was overbooked and they bumped me up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a beautiful 28 year old stewardess who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel – – it was great! They’d just finished a $25 million remodeling job and now it’s the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave me the presidential suite at no extra charge!”

“Well,” he muttered, sullenly buzz cutting my scalp……

“I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually, I was quite lucky, for as I toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to personally meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me. Sure enough, five minutes later the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down as he spoke a few words to me.”

“Really?” asked my Barber. “What’d he say?”

He said, “Where’d you get that SHITTY haircut?”

THANKS DAD!

The Pub Pickup

I saw her across the bar from me. She was young, She was beautiful, and I was struck by her eyes. The colour of cornflowers, they were calm, and they were fixed unwaveringly on my face. The steadiness of the gaze was impressive, if not a little un-nerving. I felt guilty looking back at her, but she didn’t appear to be with anybody, just sitting there waiting patiently. Waiting for what? Or maybe for whom?

I looked away, picking up my pint, and taking a long satisfying pull from it. I popped open my bag of Walkers Cheese and Onion Crisps, and picked up my book. I attempted to read, but some sixth sense told me that I was still being watched. I furtively looked up, and the same blue eyes were still looking at me. I am not sure what I saw deep in those eyes. Was it desire? Hunger? Maybe. But I also detected warmth and friendliness, I could sense that she was screwing up her courage, and I wondered if I should invite her over to my table.

Raucous laughter came from the other side of the pub, and the spell was broken. She looked away, and I went back to my book with a sense of disappointment. I had hoped I would have had time to invite her over. Sipping at my beer, I managed to get through another few pages of Lee Childs’ latest Jack Reacher novel, when I felt the hairs on my neck prickle. Looking up, I saw immediately that she had made it halfway along the bar towards me. I gazed at her spectacular body, admiring the bright red kerchief that was around her neck.

“Hello” I said softly. I indicated the seat next to me, patting it with my hand. “Come on” I smiled…. “You know you want to”

She hesitated, then elegantly walked over to me. It seemed that now she had made the decision, there would be no stopping her. She plonked herself down next to me, pressing her body firmly against me. I could feel her hot breath in my ear as she leaned over to help herself to a crisp. I cautiously put my arm around her shoulders, and turning, she focused her eyes on me, her whole face smiling. I hugged her tightly, feeling her warmth and strength.

I thought to myself…

“God….. I love Siberian Huskies”.

Is the Carrot Wagging the Horse?

It’s a cold, brisk, yet crystal clear Saturday morning, as I sit here in Costa, with my habitual Java in my hand. I have been people watching for a relaxing half hour, just chilling out, and enjoying the weekend. 
The tidal ebb and flow of pedestrians on East Grinstead’s London Road pass before the window, snuggled against the cold in thick jackets and scarves. However, in the main, they appear happy, probably due to the azure blue skies, sunshine and the lack of any sort of wind. 
I have been idly reviewing the week of newsworthy items, and I spotted an article that was definitely worthy of my consideration and subsequent fact-based ridicule. 
It seems that the UK’s population of Vegans and Vegetarians have got their delicate knickers in a twist over the discovery that minute traces of tallow have been used by the Royal Mint in the production of the UK’s new polymer five pound notes. 
Amidst the electronic squawkings in the twittersphere, it seems that a petition was raised to have the Bank of England change the manufacturing process of the notes. Predictably, the Bank of England is now “Looking into alternatives”
Now, let me try and put this into perspective.
The current working population (16 – 64 years old) of the United Kingdom is 38 million according to the Office of National Statistics. A page on the National Health Service website states that there are around 1.2 million vegetarians in the UK – about 3.5% of the adult working population. (www.nhs.uk) and less than 1% of that population are Vegan.
A quick tap on the calculator shows that the vegan population is estimated as a staggering 380,000,  
The petition managed to gather 120,000 signatures, enough to be considered for parliamentary debate – but this tiny figure represents just 31% of the vegan population if considered in isolation, or 0.1% of the total vegetarian population.
Pardon me if I come across as being just a little incredulous here. But Really? Truly? 0.003% of the adult people within the UK can trigger such a furore over a matter largely unimportant for the vast majority of people, and subsequently for a major institution to commit a sudden volte-face on the issue. 
I wonder how much this will cost the UK government? Any project changed mid course and without warning will incur costs, and these costs will be recovered from the taxation of working people. 
Whilst I am generally very respectful of the opinions of others, and having three or four vegetarian friends for whom I have cooked meals, this is, quite frankly, ludicrous.
Engage Grumpy Old Git Mode….
I am now looking forward to seeing the next Vegan/Veggie revolts on other highly contentious issues such as banning Beer and Wine due to the brewers use of Isinglass – a clearing agent made from fish bladders. Naturally, they will all enjoy the new alcohol free world in which they will live. Or maybe pay far more for beer and wine cleared with synthetic (and possibly much more dangerous to health) substances.  
Those Vegan ladies will have to stop using a great majority of perfumes due to the addition of Castoreum used in the manufacturing process. (Interestingly, castoreum is obtained from the Beaver’s castor sac).
Many plastic items, including supermarket carrier bags, and bicycle tyres use stearic acid in the production process. It is used as a “Slip agent” to prevent plastics sticking together, hence its use in banknote manufacturing. 
No Vegan Parents will be able to have soft and cosy laundry, because fabric conditioners contain dihydrogenated tallow dimethyl ammonium chloride in them, in order soften the fabric’s fibres. This product is obtained from the rendered fat from cattle, horses and other livestock.
No more sugar either in their brave new world, as most sugars that have been refined use bone char during refining. Bone char is the residue collected from the ashes of burnt animal carcasses. 
Protected Lovemaking? Well, that’s out too… condoms are made from latex, together with casein a product extracted from animal milk. This product is used to lubricate the condom.  
Oh no! More bad news for Vegan women. No more nail varnish ladies. This is made with Guanine, known commercially as “Pearl Essence”. In reality it’s made from fish scales, and is one of the four base components of RNA and DNA, the building blocks of life.
Crayons have animal fats in them as well, and whilst thinking of children, let’s consider confectionery. Red coloured food products are tinted using the crushed bodies of the Cochineal Beetle. Glazed chocolate confectionery uses an edible shellac known as “Confectioners Glaze”. In reality, it’s extracted from female Lac Insects. 
Breakfast will never be the same again in Vegan households, as a number of Orange Juice suppliers are adding Omega Three fatty oils to their products. Omega three is extracted from fish. This is a relatively new thing, and is known as “Nutraceuticals”, the addition of products essential to well being into food. 
I shall never eat another bagel again either, as researching for this article revealed that a product called L-Cysteine is used in their production. This product is manufactured from bird feathers and human and pig hair. Yuk!
Toothpaste contains Glycerine another animal product.
The list is almost endless. 
Man has been involved in animal husbandry, farming and cultivation for thousands of years. Homo Sapiens are biologically optimised to operate on a mixed diet, hence the provision of teeth such as incisors and canines to enable the cutting and ripping of flesh, and molars for the grinding of pretty much everything consumed. Stereoscopic vision enables man to be an effective hunter of lesser life forms. 
Naturally, man has also evolved philosophically and culturally, and many now consider the taking of animal life for sustenance as unacceptable, conveniently overlooking the fact the vegetation is also living matter. 
Everyone can make their own choices in terms of their ethics. If you don’t want to eat meat, that’s fine. If you make that as an ethical decision rather than a dietary one, then you should also stop wearing leather, stop riding a bike, driving a car, in fact doing most things that are an intrinsic part of living in the 21st century. 
I do have some sympathy with the protestors. Regardless of the minute amounts of animal product being used, individuals are effectively being forced by the state to handle something which they find offensive and over which they have absolutely no choice. 
In due course, I guess the fiver will become so devalued it will eventually become a coin, in the same way that the old pound note did. This will stop the whinging, unless of course, a way is found to make base metal out of old cat pelts.
So, at the end of the day, in our topsy-turvey world, the process of society is being driven by a loud, vocal, and possibly ill -informed minority, and political correctness means that fewer people feel able to turn round and say “Suck it up Cup Cake”. 

The Demise of My Blue Denims… Or Not

Settling back into my customary seat near the window of Costa’s in Petersfield, I took a cautious sip of my medium skinny wet latte with an extra shot. I say cautious, as the last time I sat here, I was nursing a burnt tongue and lip – the barista thought I had said “Extra Hot” instead of extra shot. I won’t get caught out like that again in a hurry.
Leaning back, I started leafing through the shop’s copy of the Daily Mail, in search of articles of interest. It was a bit of a slow news day, with lots of coverage of the US hustings between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. 
I mentally switched off. Reading about our own home grown liars and cheats was enough, without reading about someone else’s. 
I carried on, skimming articles for value, when my eye was drawn to a few column inches at the foot of the page.
“Why You Should Ditch Your Denim at 53!”
“Surely not” I thought. I read the article swiftly. It seems that research has shown that many people feel that denims and jeans are the province of the young, and that older folk such as myself shouldn’t wear them. 
I looked askance at the article. The very foundations of my world were rocking. Last week, it was my old trainers that I decided had to go, as balding fat blokes shouldn’t wear such items if they were to retain even a shred of street cred. 
Jeans and trainers were the uniform of my generation – our trademark, our sartorial protest at the generation before, in their baggy grey flannels and knitted pullovers. 
The style was academic, and in the past, I have worn skin tight drainpipes, flares with hems of twenty four inches, straight legs, and boot cut varieties, in standard denim blue, black denim, and, embarrassingly in the early seventies, crimson denim. I’ve had comfort fit, relaxed fit, button fly, zip fly, and even a pair with a Velcro fly, although to be fair that was a homemade repair when I got the old zip jammed and couldn’t be arsed to get it fixed. 
Over the years I have used many makes, including the eponymous Levi’s, Lee Copper, Inigo Jones, Wranglers, and even Tescos own. 
I have had (to my shame!) matching denim jackets, one of which was even fleece lined, but it in my defence it was the seventies, and I was in my late teens. 
I felt a bit sad. The thing about denim jeans is that they are so eminently practical. Pull them on in the morning, walk the dog, fix the car, cut the grass, go out shopping and then go out for a beer, and all without having to even think about changing.  
The things are almost indestructible too. I have had a pair which I have practically lived in, that I bought in 2008 on a trip to the USA. Levi’s, standard weight blue 501s. I used them for walking, motorcycling, flying, boating, cycling, and dare I say it. Even after that level of use and abuse, they are only just beginning to decompose around me. 
Don’t get me wrong, it’s just the material at the entrances to the pockets that is fraying and falling apart. The rest of the structure is OK, with the dye fading, and the wear patterns in the pockets where I habitually stow my wallet and mobile phone showing almost white. They just won’t die!
Carrying on my musings, it occurred to me that if I make the decision to retire gracefully from wearing denim, I need to assess and decide upon the look that I will need to replace it. 
I could take up wearing chinos full time. The trouble is that Chinos are fairly smart casual, and I couldn’t work on a motorcycle, and then go shopping without changing. Military surplus is a non starter. 
I could buy a few more pairs of adventure utility trousers with the zip off legs. Maybe invest in some cargo trousers, with multiple pockets.  
Or maybe I should just ignore the style gurus, and carry on wearing my blue denim jeans. They have served me well for forty five years, and I guess another twenty won’t hurt. 

Education And Aiports – Are we Losing the Plot?

Grumpy – And With Good Reason!

It may be because I am getting older, and therefore less tolerant of the idiocy of others, or it may be that other people really are becoming more cretinous and idiotic.
To prove my point, let me share some thoughts with you.
A few weekends ago, I had to make a short train journey to meet up with some family members for a genteel lunch, at a beautiful quiet country pub, nestled snugly in the Surrey countryside, in a fold of the peaceful and wealthy Surrey Hills.
In order to enjoy my journey to its fullest extent, I made a quick excursion into the pleasant little town of Haselmere, where I was to catch the train.  I left myself time to take a gentle stroll into the quintessentially English High Street where Costa Coffee is located, so I could buy my usual Skinny Wet Latte with an extra shot.  

Meandering back to the station, I popped into W H Smiths and bought a paper to pass the time.

Standing on the sun dappled platform, I began to peruse the news of the day.  Amidst all of the hysteria about the forthcoming General Election, and the sad stories relating to the earthquake in Nepal, I found some cause for an element of grumpiness, which cheered me up considerably.
It seems that London’s Goldsmith College have banned Caucasian men from attending an “Anti Racism” event, because according to the “Diversity Officer,”  in order to attend you have to belong to the BME. It appears that the BME, far from being some supremacist group, stands for “Black Ethnic Minority”. 
Mind you, there is good news here as well, because the event also positively welcomed those who are “non-binary”. 
You could be forgiven for thinking this was some form of computer phobia, or an inability to count in base ten.  
I was a little amused to discover that those amongst us who are “Non Binary” do not know what sex they are.
Is it not somewhat ironic, that an event that is intended to break down barriers, and stop people discriminating against others based on racial background should fall into the trap of banning others from attending because they come from a different racial heritage.
You couldn’t make it up could you?
I did have to chuckle at the next article, concerning yet another bastion of the British Education system –  this time Queens University in Belfast.  Why has such a respected seat of learning become the target of my grumpiness (albeit mirthful grumpiness)?
Well, the scholarly leaders have decided to ban a conference on Free Speech, Self-Censorship and the Charlie Hebdo killings.

Who employs these people?  Are they specially selected for being stupid, so as to make the scholars feel clever?

So, it was with a mood of cheerful grumpiness that I met up with my family, and enjoyed an excellent lunch, with good company and good food.
Having to a certain extent, forgotten the previous evidence that modern educationalists are sillier than primary school children, I awoke the following morning early, as I had to take a trip to London to attend a business meeting.
Driving to the station, I grabbed a coffee, and picked up a Metro free newspaper at the station entrance.
Skimming through it, – amongst the latest daily doses of pre election hyperbole and more sad stories of the earthquakes and avalanches around Everest I spotted what I was subconsciously looking for…..my morning fix of idiocy to fuel my impish inner self.
Now, I work in the aviation industry, and have done for the best part of my working life, having previously served as a security officer, VIP services manager, an aircraft cleaner, a passenger services executive, and have been flight crew.  I have been exposed to much witless behaviour on many occasions from both passengers and colleagues, but I did draw a sharp intake of breath at the story published.
It seems that a little boy, of four years old was travelling through East Midlands Airport with his family, who were flying out to Lanzarote for their holiday.
All would have been well, but for the four year old carrying a plastic toy gun. It was promptly confiscated by airport security staff because “it posed a security risk”. A spokeswoman for the airport apparently said “No items may pass through security that resemble a prohibited item”
Having seen a Nerf gun in a photograph, it’s quite difficult to see what part of a bright yellow and orange plastic toy could cause anyone but a certifiable lunatic, (or maybe a user of psychotropic drugs) or someone of less than normal eyesight and common sense to mistake it for a real weapon.
Are these people actually recruited for their simplistic interpretation of a regulation that is obviously designed to stop people wandering round the departures lounge with replica AK-47s and similar.  
Mind you, a few years ago I  personally witnessed another situation whilst passing through to airside as a passenger.  The lady in front of me was asked to cover up her tee shirt….it was camouflaged and had an image of a Hand Grenade on it.  
She was justifiably irritated, but was told that the image could be distressing to other passengers.
We live in a very strange world these days, where reality is skewed to accommodate flawed thinking, and four year old children can’t take their favourite toy with them on holiday.
Welcome to brave new world.
Discuss! 
Mark Charlwood © 2015.  Mark Charlwood holds the intellectual property rights associated with this article. Please contact me if you wish to use it, or quote from it.

Eat Your Greens – The Sprout’s Revenge

As its Christmas…….

My Mum has always told me, that I must eat my greens,
And for many years I’ve done so, as disgusting as it seems,
But of all the veg I’ve eaten, there’s one that gives me doubts,
Those nasty, bloody, tasteless things, the dreaded Brussles Sprouts

I blame it on the Belgians,they named the filthy things,
I also blame the EU and and all the nonsense that it brings,
Boil them, roast them, fry them, bake them on a griddle,
How to stop them going soft, that really is the riddle

And now we come to Christmas, the season of good cheer,
We cook our Christmas turkeys, and drink our wine and beer,
And after lunch, we watch the Queen, full up lads and lasses,
Then the sprout’s take their revenge, with farts and squeaks and gasses

This work is the intellectual Property of Mark Charlwood © and may not be published, copied or used with out written permission. If you want to use it, please contact me.

If Music Be the Food Of Love, Play on…

I was just settled down in my local Costa Coffee last week, my favourite Skinny Wet Latte with an extra shot in my hand, and the Daily Mail (thoughtfully provided by Costa) on the table.

I browsed through the major news stories, which all seemed so boringly predictable, and was about to shove the paper back in the rack when another, more interesting article caught my eye.

Upon reading the story, it became apparent that a “Senior Politician”, in this case, Mr Dafydd Iwan, the former president of the Welsh Nationalist Party Plaid Cymru, has objected to the Tom Jones hit ballad “Delilah” being sung before Welsh Rugby Matches.

I stifled my laughter, as there were other customers nearby, and I didn’t want to be regarded as weird, even although some may say I am.

What nonsense!

It seems that the noble politician has got his knickers in a twist because he regards the song inappropriate, as it “is about murder, and it trivialises the murder of women”

Well, I can see his point – to a certain extent. Not, however, to the extent that I believe it should be banned.

For pity’s sake! It’s a song! A very well written song, as evidenced by being awarded the Ivor Novello award for the “Best song musically and lyrically” in 1968. It was so good that it reached Number 2 in the UK top ten in the same year.

Now, using the same sort of skewed logic that our Mr Iwan uses, maybe we should stop singing “God Save the Queen” as this may be construed as sexist, elitist, and theologically unbalanced. Jingoistic, and appealing to the might of empire to obtain wealth and status.

Or maybe we should ban the genteel ladies of the Women’s Institute from opening their meetings with the wonderful Hymn “Jerusalem”. After all, it is condoning violence, “Bring me my bow, of burning gold, bring me my arrows of desire, bring me my spear, oh clouds unfold, bring me my chariot of fire”.

The next verse implores the middle aged ladies to wage what amounts to a religious war, with quotes like “Nor shall my sword, sleep in my hand, till we have built Jerusalem, in England’s green and pleasant land”

Maybe Liverpool City football fans should be prevented from singing You’ll never walk alone” as it could be suggesting that it’s encouraging stalkers to follow fans.

What about Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls”. This is an anthem in praise of the larger lady, but if Mr Iwan and his ilk have their way, it will be suggested that this trivialises and marginalises the chunkier ladies. – better ban it as we can’t have that sort of suggestiveness!

Rod Stewart will certainly be banned, due to his chart topper Maggie May….in the dreary, dark, PC world that Mr Iwan wants us all to inhabit, this lyrical wistful ballad will be consigned to the Naughty Step, relating as it does, to the seduction of a schoolboy by a mature woman. In his world, this no doubt trivialises such actions.

The rest of us are mature enough to understand that the lyrics are merely a light hearted reflection on the types of adolescent fantasies that most schoolboys (myself included) have about older women.

Dean Martin – well, Little Ole Wine Drinker Me will be scuppered, as this obviously mocks the very real problems of alcoholism, and marginalises the needs and requirements of the alcoholic.

Nursery Rhymes shouldn’t be exempt either, most of which have lyrics that are of questionable integrity.

Jack and Jill famous for decades due to their hill climbing abilities? Banned! Why? Because it condones child labour. Fancy making little kids climb a steep hill to collect water. They obviously haven’t been adequately trained, and a proper risk assessment doesn’t seem to have been conducted. Furthermore, they weren’t wearing any form of protective clothing, or using the correct equipment for manually handling heavy buckets.

Ding Dong Bell doesn’t do well either. Think about it. “Ding dong bell. Pussy’s in the well, who put her in, Little Tommy Flynn”

Sounds like it’s trivialising the abuse of animals doesn’t it?

I could go on, and maybe research even more songs that should be banned using the flawed logic of Mr Iwan.

Ultimately, it’s all too silly for words. So, the lyrics of Delilah tell the story of a man pushed too far. It’s no worse than watching a modern police series, or, dare I say it, a contemporary soap series. You can see it happening for real every night on the TV news.

It’s a great song Mr Iwan. It’s a wonderful powerful stirring ballad that is sung by one of your countrymen, a man with a great voice. It’s been adopted by the Welsh Rugby fans because it is FUN to sing along as a big crowd, and Tom Jones is a true Welsh icon.

Quite unlike Mr Iwan, who I’m sure will sink into obscurity long before Delilah stops being sung by us ordinary, cheerful adults who are able to discriminate between political comment, and a good song.

Discuss….

The Cessna 152

The Cessna 152 is a two seat high winged basic training aeroplane. This is my tribute to this little workhorse of the sky. Any pilot who has flown one will recognise some of the points referred to!

THE Cessna 152 design,
Is not by any means, sublime,
With clumsy struts, and angled fin,
And a fuselage, made out of tin,
A cabin, small, just room 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 drop 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 drop 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 learned to fly,
She’s no classic, that much is true,
But, deep down, she’s great, my 152

Mark Charlwood
Pilot, Instructor, Poet

A conversation overheard at Lost Baggage at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 4

You’re bag’s been lost, oh deary me, now that’s an awful shame,
You say that it was with you sir, when you got aboard the ‘plane,
Before we go much further sir, let’s get some details down,
Now, what’s the style and size sir, and was it black or brown,
Was it made of plastic sir, oh, pardon me it’s hide<em<,
And without being rude, sir, what was packed inside,
Er…where did you depart sir, oh, you just came in from Rome,
The chances are, your bag sir, has gone on to Cologne,
You've gone a funny colour sir, I think you're going to choke,
Please don't get excited sir, it's just my little joke,
Please don't be offensive sir, I'm trying to do my best,
And you bellowing and shouting, sir, will only get you stressed,
Go up to the restaurant, sir, and have a cup of tea,
I'm sure I'll work much better, sir, if you leave it all to me,
It's no use complaining to me sir,I'm just working hard,
If you really want to moan sir, then please fill in this card,
I have just one last question, sir, and I know it's rude to pry,
But if you can't take a joke, sir, why the blazes did you fly?

Written 28/09/1989

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