I'm back (my naughty honeybun)
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Posted:Oct 3, 2007 11:20 pm
Last Updated:Oct 12, 2007 2:37 pm
13512 Views
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I’m back my naughty honeybun.
I’m back so we can have some fun.
I know I’ve been away a while,
But now I’m here to make you smile.
Maybe I’ll spread a little sleaze.
Now tell me babe what shall I squeeze?
Let’s just play some make-believe.
Impishness in words I’ll weave.
Suggestive things, and risqué wit,
To tinglify that sensual bit
Of you ‒ yes, just as much
As it takes for me to touch
Your imagination lewd
With word-pictures oh-so rude.
Maybe poetry, maybe porn,
Maybe I really ought to warn
You that I can be really bad,
And sometimes even slightly mad,
Well honey they’re just my excuses
For trying to liberate your juices
With verse to bum, boob and tit,
Tasting pussy, licking clit,
Occasionally I’ll get real silly
And boast gymnastics with my willy.
And though you know it isn’t true,
I’ll get a lovely smile from you.
Yes, I’ve come back my honeybun,
Hey baby, now let’s have some fun.
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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High Skies and Country Music
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Posted:Sep 2, 2007 5:40 am
Last Updated:Oct 9, 2007 2:10 pm
13047 Views
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I have a busy few days ahead ‒ a lot to do and a thing or to that might be worrisome, so I take myself off down to Devil’s Dyke ‒ a high ridge behind Brighton and get myself airborne. The wind is strong and lifty, so much so that I have to work hard to get back to the ground each time I take to the air, but the view over the downs to Brighton beneath a moody sky is spectacular. The higher you get, the better the view.
Early afternoon it gets busy, with over twenty paragliders and a couple of hang-gliders swirling and swooping, trying to steal the best lift while avoiding getting in each other’s way. There are the novices, trailing red ribbons and struggling to make sense of sky (we’ve all been there and making full sense takes a lifetime), the skygods doing aerobatics or trying to be highest, or furthest, or whatever, the chorus-line of other flyers, and me ……. all in some anarchic gaggle in the sky.
I fly five times, half an hour to forty minutes a flight, interspersed with friendly banter on the ground, eating ice cream, answering the phone call that came through five hundred feet above take-off ……. I’m not the world’s best on a mobile phone and if I’m tightly circling a thermal there’s no way I’m gonna small talk. They’re nice flights, with good beginnings, middles and, most importantly, ends.
The evening sunlight makes shafts between the clouds, and the brightness kicks off some soft thermals. You can tell ‒ birds are circling, and a solitary pilot finds his way there and gets lift.
I’m done and packing my rig away, slowly. It’s always slowly ‒ you soak in the spirit of moment and place if you take your time in the big outdoors.
And then a few yards walk back to the car.
I still need to load up my CD player, since it got repaired at the garage a little while ago (I need to wash the car too, lol), so I have the radio on and it’s scanning through and finds BBC Radio 2.
I recognise the voice. It’s Wispering Bob Harris, the one-time presenter of “The Old Grey Whistle Test,” a classic rock-genre TV show from way back in the 1970s. Bob Harris was as much a legend as the acts he introduced …….. and all the greats were there ‒ The Who, Bowie, Stones, Grateful Dead, Captain Beefheart, Pink Floyd, and more …….. so much more. Bob was so laid-back he was an inspiration for a whole generation to chill out, or so it seemed. He was certainly an inspiration to me.
Whispering Bob is presenting a country music programme.
And despite the fact that I know so little about country music (I’m a Brit and I don’t line-dance) it’s the perfect end to a great day out. I find myself whooping, woohooing and yee-hawing as I drive up the motorway home.
One memorable number was “I like trucks,” by the Canadian singer and fiddler Kendel Carson. Just love the lyrics. Here’s the chorus:
I like trucks – big trucks
I like cars – that go fast
I like boys – that talk trash
And take it as it comes.
I like the sun when it goes down
And six bartenders in this cool town
And if sometimes all that sucks
I still like trucks – big trucks
Deliciously sassy and I betcha with that attitude she’d make a brilliant free-flyer!
I took the picture between Phoenix and Flagstaff Arizona last year while on a flying trip. Kendel sweetie ‒ I like big trucks too! |
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Feral
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Posted:Aug 29, 2007 1:23 pm
Last Updated:Sep 30, 2007 4:33 pm
13193 Views
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A few days ago an eleven year old boy was shot in the neck by a hooded in a suburb of Liverpool and subsequently died. It appeared to be a motiveless killing - nothing more than a mindless extreme of bullying.
There has been a deeply disturbing trend of late in inner city areas in England of teenagers being murdered by other teenagers, and I wonder what's gone wrong.
Now it would be a mistake to assume that all English teenagers have turned into potentially homicidal maniacs, but equally taking each other's lives, mostly in the context of "gangsta cool" is shocking. I actually know a young man who is now seriously and permanently disabled because of being attacked by a gang of youths. When it came to court it emerged that the gang had mistaken his identity.
I think there are two key factors that have made this possible. The first is weak parenting and yielding to 's wishes rather than giving structure and guidance. Why is it that so many lurk at street corners after 10 p.m. if this wasn't so? The second is aggressive street music, that glamourises "the street," violent behaviour, drug dealing and misogyny. Cover versions on the radio have toned down lyrics from the downloaded mpgs and we have pre- who are having their heads filled with this shit. I suppose what really gets to me is that the music multimillionaires know exactly what they are doing - glamourise social deprivation and you have a mass market of millions to exploit.
What also troubles me is the parallel between this youth behaviour and that of social primates such as chimpanzees, and baboons in the wild and wonder if adolescent males in this social ape - humans - are somehow wired, and rather like "Lord of the Flies" will revert to feral behaviour left to their own devices. And perhaps the social values that came with religion and culture evolved to contain it.
Overall I'm positive. I really do believe that there are as many good teenagers as there are good adults, but I worry that where it does go wrong none of us seem to have a clear idea about how to deal with it - myself included.
And there are countries like Denmark and Norway where this is much, much less of an issue, and I wonder what they have so sorted that we don't.
They have 's play areas in banks and even average sized shops......
Perhaps that says something about their society's view of what is important to them ...... and ultimately their future. Perhaps the sense of belonging they have means there is no point in "going feral."
I know this post oversimplifies the issue and forgive me for getting it off my chest..... but hey, it had to be said. |
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Now Have You Ever Done This ........?
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Posted:Aug 19, 2007 6:57 am
Last Updated:Sep 4, 2007 11:05 pm
13336 Views
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You can’t pretend,
I am no fool,
You piddled in
The swimming pool.
It was so blue
When we came in
But now it’s pale
Aquamarine!
I mean to say
That’s almost green!
And you created
Further troubles.
It wasn’t just
Jacuzzi bubbles.
Despite my poor nose
I could tell
It wasn’t just
A chlorine smell.
As if all this
Was not enough,
You continued
This naughty stuff,
Because then
Within half an hour
You had a pee
Within the shower.
You must stop this.
You must refrain
If we’re to go
Swimming again.
In a recent survey 61% of women admitted to peeing in the pool. I found no information for men, but knowing the increased predisposition towards the indiscreet and general all-round slobbishness that comes with the Y chromosome, my guess is add on at least ten percent. I mean to say, why is Homer Simpson such a male icon if this wasn't so? Thirteen percent of women, if they were out of the pool at the time actually went into the pool as the place of choice to pee. The majority of those who do pee do so through their swimsuits, but some did say they pulled the crotch to one side, so the guys with goggles might not simply be doing it because of the chlorine!
The main reason appears to be laziness, but some said they didn't like swimming pool toilets, and there was a proportion who found the experience of doing it sexual. Of course, as the body is cooled by the swimming pool water antidiuretic hormones, that suppress urine formation are suppressed, so you wanna whizz more than usual.
Urine itself is sterile, the chlorine or ozone in the water sterilises any possible infection that might exist (unless the lil bugs are wearing goggles, lol) and the dilution factor in a 25 metre public pool is something like one in 750,000. This would be detectable by any great white or other man-eating shark that happened to be in the pool at the time, but I have it on good authority that those responsible for public baths in the civilised world check their pools daily for such intruders. However, a one in three quarter of a million dilution is insignificant in terms of gross-out, so the disgust is psychological, rather than at a direct threat to health.
Despite this, there does seem to be a chemical reaction that occurs between sweat or urine and chlorine that does produce trichloramines, which is an irritant, so those who work in public baths, such as swimming coaches are two and a half times more likely to suffer from respiratory tract irritation than those in public baths who work away from the pool, but it seems you need sustained and regular presence at an indoor poolside for this to happen.
So are you going to 'fess up? Have you ever peed in that pool, farted in the jacuzzi (I know - it was all those nasty vicious bubbles that made you do it), or added to the flow-rate in the shower?
Could I take you swimming?
And would you make me blush? |
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To Hear You
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Posted:Aug 17, 2007 6:01 am
Last Updated:Oct 4, 2007 2:30 pm
13204 Views
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To hear you talking on the telephone.
That soft and sweetest timbre of your voice.
Each syllable, each dulcet spoken tone
Brings to my mind that such a special choice
Of friendship over time that’s really grown,
Is such to make my heart sing and rejoice.
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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You Want the Tooth? You Can't Handle the Tooth?
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Posted:Aug 15, 2007 2:52 am
Last Updated:Aug 18, 2007 8:11 pm
13323 Views
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The story continues…………
Well there were a number of options concerning the disposal of my dear old dad’s two incisor teeth, inadvertently bequeathed to me and discovered in a clearout of my study. I guess I could have been as creative as [blog consideringbi2] and positioned the two teeth in a diecast model of the car I drive, as driver and passenger. I could have invested in a small showcase and treated them as iconic relics. I actually discovered a little urn-like container ‒ Chinese, I think, and another little family heirloom. If people were keeping ancestral ashes on the mantelpiece, what was so wrong about that?
But then I thought about “Meet the Parents,” and that memorable episode of “Only Fools and Horses,” when holding on to any form of human remains ‒ particularly in any form of container - opens up opportunities for unwitting comedy. Nope! A human being, or any part thereof has got to have being alive as a minimum qualification to being given houseroom.
Furthermore, I do have a childhood memory of my dad singing, “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth,” and the risk of my subconscious playing tricks on me. It’d be like “Nightmare on Elm Street.” I’d be too scared to dream.
Particularly as Christmas approaches.
Imagine what a wreck I’d become, suffering from sleep deprivation. I’d have to take early retirement through ill-health as I become incapable of making even the simplest decisions.
“Would you like a coffee, Mr W&S?”
“Er, errrr, errrrr ……… come back to me on that one when I’ve figured it out.”
Or even worse finally yielding to sleep……
And dreaming…….
Out of the mist a shadowy figure approaches. He’s singing a song that I can barely hear, but as he approaches both his face and his voice becomes increasingly distinct. The mist is dense, so I only really figure that it’s my dad when he’s three feet from my face.
And this time I can hear him. Loud and clear……
“All I want for Christmas is MY TWO FRONT TEETH!!!!!!”
And he grins. And he’s right. His ethereally modified dentures now have two gaps for the missing incisors.
Nope! I don’t even want to think of my dear old dad like that. It’d be the height of disrespect. Particularly if I then blogged about it.
My dad’s teeth just had to go.
Well I had offered to take my now grown up to IKEA, so I decided to make a detour en-route. I would bury my dad’s teeth. My first thought was to bury them in a graveyard, but it seemed a little tacky, just sneaking in and dropping them off somewhere. Damned if I was going to get a vicar involved.
But then I had a flash of inspiration.
My dad was an army man. A soldier through and through with an exemplary military career. He started his army life at Woolwich Barracks. Now Woolwich Barracks is the place so many artillerymen and artillerymen (like my dad) were trained. It has a huge parade square, one of the biggest in the country, I guess because of all those -drawn gun carriages that were trotted up and down. It has a grand frontage, as you can see in the pic, which faces a memorial to all artillerymen over the ages.
This was where the teeth were meant to be.
So I park the car next to the parade square, and next to a big NO PARKING sign, but there’s no one else around and it’s only going to take a few minutes to make a little hole in the ground with a long pencil and drop the teeth in.
With huge confidence I walk across the square to the memorial.
And a security man and a soldier with a gun walk towards me.
I guess these are nervous times, with Iraq, car bombs and stuff.
It’s a big parade square and they take a couple of minutes to get to me.
Do I really look that dodgy?
“Excuse me sir.” The security guard says. “I’m afraid your car shouldn’t be parked there.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “ My father was Regimental Sergeant Major of 1st RHA and he began his career here on this parade square.”
Now RHA is the Royal Artillery, a guards regiment. They do things like wear fancy blue uniforms with busbies and gold piping, fire a 21 gun salute on the Queen’s Birthday (one can never get one’s proper birthday lie in with all that racket, can one?), and ride those guns and limbers at full gallop in a scary figure of eight manoeuvre at military tattoos. They are now an airborne artillery unit, mobilised to the world's hot spots at short notice. In the WWII they were light anti-tank artillery, always in the thick of it. Scary stuff and little wonder my dad was decorated for bravery.
“Many a soldier has, sir. Now just remember. Next time park it in the car park.”
“I will. And I won’t be long.”
I look at the soldier with the gun. He must only be about 19, and if he hasn’t done a tour of duty I guess he soon will do. I do have a respect for soldiers. Like my dad they often come from poor backgrounds and the army gives them a sense of structure and discipline, which makes a man out of them.
And they understand the painful truth about soldiering.
As my dad put it, “A soldier is not paid the Queen’s Shilling to kill. A soldier is paid to be prepared to die.”
I’ve always been a bit awestruck by that concept. Soldier as gladiator. Brave people worthy of respect.
The soldier and security guard walk away. I walk over to the memorial and in the grass next to it discreetly make a hole with the pencil and drop the teeth in. I stand and reflect for a moment and then return to the car.
This is where they were meant to be. The journey that began for my father at this parade square had kind of come full circle. There was dignity and appropriateness. And most importantly there was meaning.
And I do think finding meaning in the things we do enriches our lives more than any wad of banknotes.
I get to the car. My is there, listening to the radio.
“Dad,” she says. “While you were away a policeman knocked on the car window and asked what was going on. I pointed to you and said you had gone onto the square to pay respects to your dad.”
“He didn’t write a parking ticket.”
“No. He just said ‘Okay then’ and went off.”
Nice to know that security and the police are vigilant in these dangerous times.
Nice also to know that I didn’t look too dodgy.
Or maybe I have Jedi skills, like Obi-Wan Kenobe and can make people act on my bidding while being totally natural. After all, Jedi has now become a religion with 7,000 followers in Australia alone. Maybe. Woooooooooooo ........
Nope! That’s preposterous. But I’m going to try it out today anyway.
Or maybe this is how things were meant to be.
I like that thought.
And that is the tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth.
So help me gob. |
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Ewwww! Ewwww! What Shall I Do?
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Posted:Aug 13, 2007 1:30 pm
Last Updated:Aug 19, 2007 7:07 am
13259 Views
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I have been totally caught off guard, and I have to confess that I’m pretty fazed too. I’m having a major clearout of my study on an EVERYTHING MUST GO basis and as I’m sure you have experienced this is a real voyage of discovery. Just keep your eyes peeled on e-bay and I tell ya, spot the guy selling a load of old crap and that’ll be me, lol.
Well I found this little red leather pillbox which had a zip opening lid. Must be at least fifty years old. It’s too battered to be of any value and it is going into the non-recyclable sack, destined for landfill and discovery by amazed future historians.
So…….
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzipppppp! I open it.
Moment of truth, like entering a miniature Aladdin’s cave.
Not!
There inside are press studs for those old fashioned attachable collars and a few tired old cufflinks. So I tip them out into the palm of my left hand before consigning them to a journey into history. I appreciate there might be a little silver and gold there, but almost certainly plate ‒ the bits and pieces look too tired to be the real McCoy.
So I run my finger through the artefacts and find…….
Two incisor teeth!
And I know that these are the last tangible remains of my father who died 35 years ago.
He must have kept them as some form of keepsake when his teeth were all removed and replaced by dentures when he was in his forties. Jeez! We forget in these days of restorative dental care that only a generation ago it was whip ‘em out at the first sign of trouble. The last time I lost a tooth was something like twenty years ago, and that was only because I found some half-crazed lunatic on an emergency appointment at a weekend. I tell ya, the loss of that tooth was a mini-death for me. One of the few tastes I’ve had that life only gets worse as time rolls on, when it comes to our physical forms.
I’m always in denial about this, so when I get a stark reminder a chill runs thru them bones…….
And them teeth!
Poor old dad. It seems odd that he strove so hard throughout his life to develop a real sense of dignity, joining the army from the poorest of backgrounds and rising through the ranks to become an officer and a gentleman, respected so much he was given a military funeral……
Except they left two bloody teeth behind…..
And I don’t know what to do with them!
Holding on to them just seems plain creepy. And respect for the dear departed means I can’t exactly throw them out with the rest of the non-recyclables. A mini-funeral on the other hand does seem a tad OTT.
Of course, if I was infernally insane I would reconstitute my father from the remaining DNA in the pulp cavity. But the tabloids would give me such a bad press, and these days the media is the message. Anyhow, even working quickly I’d have a dad who was 56 years younger than me, and there might be one or two issues of dysfunctionality there.
So c’mon bloggyfriends, wherever you might be…..
What shall I do with my dear departed father’s teeth?
btw whenever my mum was really mad at my dad for coming home drunk from the officer's mess she'd hide his false teeth for at least a day - but that's another story! 
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spandex leggings
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Posted:Aug 12, 2007 2:03 am
Last Updated:Aug 17, 2007 6:04 am
13041 Views
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can’t you see
i’m really fit
my spandex leggings’
just a bit
too tight
so when you
cast your eyes
you might think
wow
such mighty thighs
could run a mile
in record time
give me a while
give me permission
to get myself
in prime condition
give me a chance
and i’ll show you
just what these
mighty legs
can do
now tell me
please
i will say this
i will not take it
as a diss
unless of course
you take the piss
does my bum
look big in this
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Wonder
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Posted:Aug 10, 2007 3:37 am
Last Updated:Aug 19, 2007 7:00 am
13115 Views
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Dontcha just sometimes get hit by a total sense of wonder? Lying on my bed the other night, looking towards the night sky and seeing the plough perfectly framed by the window. Now you might know the plough as the Great Bear, or Big Dipper, or if you like the technical name, Ursa Major. To me it has always been the saucepan in the sky.
You know, practically every Greek myth is somewhere in the constellations, and in ancient times this was how people recognised the night sky. And with a storybook in the sky navigation became possible. These were passed by word of mouth thousands of years before being written. So the shapes and literary forms we endowed our sky with add to it layer upon layer of meaning.
And sometimes I look up at the night sky and wonder what it must have been like to have been an ancient, reading it and telling it to others. Families used to sleep on the roof in the Mediterranean and Middle East (and still sometimes do). Can you imagine being told a bedtime story from the skies?
But back to the plough. One of the stars has a tiny partner. This partner is no star, but an entire spiral galaxy far, far away, called Messier 101.
The light reaching my eyes took 25 million years to get here. 25 million years ago our ancestors would not have been human, but apes similar in some ways to chimpanzees. Messier 101 is 171,000 light years across. It takes that long for light simply to travel from one side of the galaxy to the other.
Human civilisation as we know it is about ten thousand years old, give or take a bit. In that time light has barely begun to cross the galaxy.
And then look at the picture - it almost seems alive, doesn't it? Imagine all those planets, all those life-forms that almost certainly exist ...... oh wow!
That tiny point of light and all it entails just makes me aware of how truly small I am in the hugeness of this reality. In all the noise of an ego-driven and inneficiently busy little planet there is a humility about who we are and where we fit in the grand scheme of things. And yet my consciousness can to some extent embrace this hugeness and recognise the image on the mirror within us all.
And so can yours.
So in those moments that we come into contact just think of the hugeness of what we share. When eyes meet there is the potential for universes to collide. Or mirror images at least, which makes it none the less awesome.
So back to the original question…….
Dontcha just sometimes get hit by a total sense of wonder? |
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Phoning U
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Posted:Aug 7, 2007 2:59 am
Last Updated:Aug 13, 2007 5:58 pm
12954 Views
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C’mon baby, take a chance.
Slip your phone inside your pants.
You will find it neatly fits
Right beside your naughty bits.
Tucked down low there ‒ just in front,
To tease your clitty and your cunt.
Put it on a silent buzz…..
The reason why?
Well that’s because
You might be in a public place,
I would not want to cause disgrace.
I do not want you to offend,
Or embarrass,
My dear, sweet friend,
But mmmmmm! The thought
That when I’m phoning
Hunnybuns, you will be moaning.
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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I want some rough
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Posted:Jul 30, 2007 4:02 am
Last Updated:Aug 12, 2007 6:19 pm
13219 Views
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I’ve had enough
I’ve had enough
Of good ladies
I want some rough
I want bad girls
To strut their stuff
In shiny leather
Not pink fluff
Don’t want you honey
To be nice
I want some horny
Really porny
Full of fornicating
Vice
So come on baby
Be my slut
Show me lotsa
Lotsa smut
Bend over
Let me see
That butt
And take you
In some glorious
Rut
And hey what fun
We both have had
It was real fun
To be so bad
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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Pondlife
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Posted:Jul 29, 2007 4:29 am
Last Updated:Aug 7, 2007 4:03 pm
13187 Views
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Well it’s been the heaviest rains in England since records began and they have resulted in some of the worst floods ‒ and certainly the worst summer floods ‒ in living memory. Hundreds of thousands of homes have been affected and billions of pounds of damage.
Like all crises the dire situation has brought people together. There have been so many stories of public spiritedness, not only by the emergency services, but by countless citizens. Ordinary folk who you’d pass on the street without a second glance showing acts of compassion, generosity and bravery. Some people even compared it all to the blitz of World War II.
But rather like the blitz, where thieves would lurk around Kensington and Chelsea waiting for bombs to drop there, because the wealthy folk who lived there would have valuables such as jewellery and expensive watches on their person and if they should become bomb victims there were easy pickings, so it has been with the floods.
A whole area was put at risk because someone stole valuable portable flood defences, abandoned cars and homes have been looted. When bottled water was being rationed to one pack per person outside supermarkets (there is no safe drinking water ‒ more a sewage soup) there were those who cheated the system and joined every queue going, to fill up their cars with much more than they needed. Before the supplies appeared there were those making a fast buck by reselling bottled water at five times the price they paid for it.
And now the waters have subsided there are fly by night “builders” looking for easy money on cheapskate bodged restorations for the uninsured.
But the worst I heard was that some of the water bowsers that were placed at street corners for drinking water had been vandalised. Some had had the taps deliberately left open, others tipped over, others yet again had had bleach added to them.
Worse than that……
Some bowsers had been urinated into.
What kind of person does something, not only gross, but as deeply antisocial as this? And if it is a juvenile, what kind of upbringing? What kind of value-system has been learned, and how?
A newspaper headline simply said, “Pondlife,” and I agree.
On a lighter note ‒ the pic shows a young woman who, realising the floodwater would go over her wellies, stripped to her knickers and waded through.
Good on you! Love that smile! |
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Full frontal spanking
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Posted:Jul 27, 2007 1:46 am
Last Updated:Aug 13, 2007 3:46 pm
13781 Views
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Well I did get to fly the following day. I got there rather late and missed the best and the wind. It was still blowing okay but it had shifted to the south and was off-slope. Anyhow, I’d made the journey and got my wing out.
I was once told that a paraglider was like a samurai sword. Once drawn the sword had to be blooded. Once opened the paraglider wing has to be flown. Now there are times that common sense and self-preservation prevail, but on the whole it’s a good maxim. There is this psychological dimension to this sport ‒ and other sports too ‒ called commitment. It’s a kind of “go for it” attitude. Without it you’d never leave the ground as you mull over all the what-ifs, and worry, however small, really affects your empathy with your wing. At the point of launch there is a oneness with your glider. It’s really important. At that moment it’s all-important.
So my wing comes over my head. I check that it’s flying evenly and launch. A couple of steps does it. Boots leave the ground and up, up and away as I sit back into my harness. Crossing the slope, gaining height and then there’s a surge and I hear my wing above me have a big tuck. From flying I’m in free-fall and I see the ground approaching. I’ve got a choice ‒ prepare to land heavily like an army parachutist or fly out of it. In less than quarter of a second I choose the latter and stay seated in the harness and pull down on the control lines.
It works and I pull back into flight about six feet above the ground, fly on a few yards and find my lift. It’s a bit lumpy, bumpy and surgy, but it gets me up into smoother sky and then I say whew! to myself and soar for quarter of an hour or so, before the air goes flat and I glide down to land.
“Bloody hell! You were lucky,” a fellow pilot said. “That was an eighty percent frontal tuck. You were flying on your tips.”
“It felt like a big one,” I said. “I was too busy watching the ground to look up. Eighty percent. That’s worrying.”
“No point worrying,” another flyer added. “You recovered it, pulled out, had a nice flight and landed safely. That’s a good flight.”
“It’s true what they say about this site,” I say.
“Yeah. It can give you a real spanking. Particularly when the wind is off to the south.”
“Best spanking you’ll have outside of that whorehouse in Texas,” someone else quips.
“And boy, can those girls spank,” I add.
“Got the number?” someone else chips in.
And an incident that is potentially life threatening (I actually know someone who was killed by a full frontal tuck) is for the time being changed into something amusing. We all do that. It’s a graveyard humour you see among soldiers and it’s a kind of survival mechanism.
But it does lead to further conversations and analysis a while later. Would I have tucked as badly if my angle of attack was better? Could I have pre-empted it and prevented it from happening? And the days that follow, quite a lot of reflection. Never what if I’d hit the ground ‒ that goes without saying. Should I do some further training in advanced flying techniques, deliberately creating tucks and stalls with plenty of height (ironically, the higher you are the safer you are, unless you are sucked into a cloud)? Should I get some individual coaching by “the best?”
And then there’s the whole thing about the fine line between success and failure, good times and disasters. There’s a deep awareness of what risk really is, and how we all take them from time to time. I don’t fly to take risks, but I’m aware that there are risks in free-flying. Perhaps lady luck too.
“It’s as if you have two bags,” one of my flying instructors said to me during my training. “One full and the other empty. The full bag is your luck bag and your empty one is your experience one, and you hope the experience bag fills up before the luck bag empties.”
You see, with such simple flying machines practically all accidents are attributable to pilot error, whether it’s not checking your equipment, misjudging the flying conditions, poor control or poor judgement in flight. Experience only has a value if it is the product of reflection and making changes.
The same is true for life.
And I guess that is one of the things that really appeals to me about the sport is that I have learned so much about life by running away from it into the sky.
Oh! You feel cheated ‘cos you wanted me to write about that kind of full frontal spanking.
Sorry!
Okay……
Who’s being spanked? Me or you? I’ve made a pervy lil clitty whip!
Me?
Righto, dropping my pants and lil warm is bracing himself for a slap!
He has, after all, been such a naughty boy! |
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