Cracks on Navy Helicopter
If it is the Royal Navy....that posing could be considered a provocative act!
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Let's see....
...if I got his one right.
The good ol' acronym "CREEP" comes to mind....
C for "Crack"
R for "Retention System"
E for "Enlightenment"
E for "Extraction"
P for "Post-Poop factors"...
Sorry I could not do any better..it's Monday
The good ol' acronym "CREEP" comes to mind....
C for "Crack"
R for "Retention System"
E for "Enlightenment"
E for "Extraction"
P for "Post-Poop factors"...
Sorry I could not do any better..it's Monday
Originally Posted by Magoodotcom
New Zealand please!!! Aussie helo engos wouldn't anywhere near that crass!!! 
Avoid imitations
Join Date: Nov 2000
Location: Wandering the FIR and cyberspace often at highly unsociable times
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It looks like the Navy will be calling in their 'crack' cleaning team next.
Rear Admiral Nobby Clark, RAN, recently released this media statement:
"This program is designed to flush away the bum deal experienced with software compatibility issues, wiping the area clean and starting afresh with a crack team.
We don't want to paper over problems - we want to apply firm pressure in the appropriate places to clean this up once and for all, without pointing the finger.
It's going to be a team effort, where we'll all need to pull together. As you know, in the Navy, we never leave our mates behind."
"This program is designed to flush away the bum deal experienced with software compatibility issues, wiping the area clean and starting afresh with a crack team.
We don't want to paper over problems - we want to apply firm pressure in the appropriate places to clean this up once and for all, without pointing the finger.
It's going to be a team effort, where we'll all need to pull together. As you know, in the Navy, we never leave our mates behind."
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I tought nobby's comments brilliant, so while I bin in amongst the leaves once again for a few hours, I came up with some mods to one of Oz's epics. Mind you anyone can be a poet when someone else has done the hard work, in this case the someone else was a war correspondent of the boer war and the man in charge of all OZ remounts of the WW1. a superb horseman- for those interested the original can easily be found by googling his name. a sad ending and I hope not the end of the stars portrayed, i'm enjoying their company.
THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That an old sea horse had gone to heaven, broke its main stay,
And lay upon the pad a sad and sorry sight - it was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted drivers from the stations near and far
Had mustered to the bar fridge overnight,
For the bush drivers love hard flying where the wild hard flying are,
And the choppers snuff the battle with delight.
There was Nickalapos, who made his pile when old ‘76 won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could fly beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever machine and man could go.
And Broussard and Kenyon came down to lend a hand,
Some say no better drivers ever held the sticks;
For no machine could throw throw them while they still could stand,
They learnt to fly in the shadow of Hannah, the best of the chix
And one was there, a sassy stripling on a small and flighty beast,
She was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of English pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain drivers prized.
She was a whirlwind of desire—would never need a gig.
There was courage in her quick impatient tread;
A challenge of gameness and a lovely, long lithe leg,
On this mare this sassy boy, would need to keep his head.
Imabell and dandy came down to join the play with glee,
mounted on his fancy, a thoroughbred, a fast and racy mare.
Bellfest too was there, he’d seen hard riding in the Territ-tree.
Those hills are far too rough for such as you to Dare.”
Said topend who was there to be the babbling brook —
though some said at boiling water was the limit of his trade;
No doubt a bubbling stew he’ll perchance to cook,
and the ghosts and feats of old to rattle with the blades.
Kiwi Ned turned up to catch those awkward camera shots.
The young colts all champing at the bit will be reined by Heliport,
who stands beside old Shytorque as an old and timely stot,
Blender toured over with a doubler, all frisky and full of sport.
Jackson Dave brought his kit to build a bit of rotary wit,
Eacott was looking for something to fire up his light;
I have seen full many drivers since I first commenced to flit,
But nowhere yet such drivers have I seen ere so bright
Old Arm Outhe Winder and his mad mate Who Flung Dung,
Swung their whips, swore on their way down from the Cape,
‘than the Curry Merry Muster this was much more bloody fun’,
And the old man gave his orders, we’ll hit em at the nape;
No use for fancy flying, on the edge or any silly spills,
For never yet was a driver that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those Bishop Bonner hills.’
So Sassy flew to wheel them—he was flying on the wing
Where the best and boldest drivers take their place,
And he raced his good-mare past them, and he made the heavens ring
With the stockwhip, as he met those ghosts face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Flameout took a pull,
All the musterers, those western ringers, they too held their breath,
The clouds tumbled thickly and were full of hidden rocks,
Of groping trees and lightening, any slip was death.
But that Sas, son of uncle Sam, let his pony have full throttle,
And he whirled her head around and gave a mighty cheer,
And he raced her down the turbulence like a torrent down its bed,
While the others hovered and watched in very fear.
On a dim and distant horizon the wild ghosts racing yet,
With the Sas and mighty Whirls still at their heels.
And down at any station bar, where all good drivers get
with stories far and fetched, some of grief and feel,
Where the air is clear as crystal, the angels swoop and sway
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
The man who caught that old sea horse is a by-word of to-day,
And the drivers tell, of the ghost drivers in the sky
THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That an old sea horse had gone to heaven, broke its main stay,
And lay upon the pad a sad and sorry sight - it was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted drivers from the stations near and far
Had mustered to the bar fridge overnight,
For the bush drivers love hard flying where the wild hard flying are,
And the choppers snuff the battle with delight.
There was Nickalapos, who made his pile when old ‘76 won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could fly beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever machine and man could go.
And Broussard and Kenyon came down to lend a hand,
Some say no better drivers ever held the sticks;
For no machine could throw throw them while they still could stand,
They learnt to fly in the shadow of Hannah, the best of the chix
And one was there, a sassy stripling on a small and flighty beast,
She was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of English pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain drivers prized.
She was a whirlwind of desire—would never need a gig.
There was courage in her quick impatient tread;
A challenge of gameness and a lovely, long lithe leg,
On this mare this sassy boy, would need to keep his head.
Imabell and dandy came down to join the play with glee,
mounted on his fancy, a thoroughbred, a fast and racy mare.
Bellfest too was there, he’d seen hard riding in the Territ-tree.
Those hills are far too rough for such as you to Dare.”
Said topend who was there to be the babbling brook —
though some said at boiling water was the limit of his trade;
No doubt a bubbling stew he’ll perchance to cook,
and the ghosts and feats of old to rattle with the blades.
Kiwi Ned turned up to catch those awkward camera shots.
The young colts all champing at the bit will be reined by Heliport,
who stands beside old Shytorque as an old and timely stot,
Blender toured over with a doubler, all frisky and full of sport.
Jackson Dave brought his kit to build a bit of rotary wit,
Eacott was looking for something to fire up his light;
I have seen full many drivers since I first commenced to flit,
But nowhere yet such drivers have I seen ere so bright
Old Arm Outhe Winder and his mad mate Who Flung Dung,
Swung their whips, swore on their way down from the Cape,
‘than the Curry Merry Muster this was much more bloody fun’,
And the old man gave his orders, we’ll hit em at the nape;
No use for fancy flying, on the edge or any silly spills,
For never yet was a driver that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those Bishop Bonner hills.’
So Sassy flew to wheel them—he was flying on the wing
Where the best and boldest drivers take their place,
And he raced his good-mare past them, and he made the heavens ring
With the stockwhip, as he met those ghosts face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Flameout took a pull,
All the musterers, those western ringers, they too held their breath,
The clouds tumbled thickly and were full of hidden rocks,
Of groping trees and lightening, any slip was death.
But that Sas, son of uncle Sam, let his pony have full throttle,
And he whirled her head around and gave a mighty cheer,
And he raced her down the turbulence like a torrent down its bed,
While the others hovered and watched in very fear.
On a dim and distant horizon the wild ghosts racing yet,
With the Sas and mighty Whirls still at their heels.
And down at any station bar, where all good drivers get
with stories far and fetched, some of grief and feel,
Where the air is clear as crystal, the angels swoop and sway
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
The man who caught that old sea horse is a by-word of to-day,
And the drivers tell, of the ghost drivers in the sky
Last edited by topendtorque; 12th Jul 2006 at 21:52.
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I've come back in for a quick look. Yes there are some mistakes, in fact quite few; I'll leave them; But then that's our life isn't it.
Perhaps a little poignant under the cicumstances, been there, as we all have.
Daylight tomorrow, do a daily and scent the air.
TET
Perhaps a little poignant under the cicumstances, been there, as we all have.
Daylight tomorrow, do a daily and scent the air.
TET
Hovering AND talking
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Topendtorque, very very funny and clever 
.
Now. If you can let me know the tune to which this ditty is set, I can start practising on me banjo! Any key you like as long as it's G.
Cheers
Whirls
We had another poetry/odes/clerihews thread a while back; perhaps us Rotorheads are more literary than we let on.
.Now. If you can let me know the tune to which this ditty is set, I can start practising on me banjo! Any key you like as long as it's G.
Cheers
Whirls
We had another poetry/odes/clerihews thread a while back; perhaps us Rotorheads are more literary than we let on.
Onya, TET, channeling a bit of the old AB Paterson there...
Whirls, as you may know, the original is the famous poem 'The Man from Snowy River' - I haven't heard it put to music, but seeing as it's so known and loved in Australia it wouldn't surprise me if someone had made it into a song.
The old bush poetry can be pretty moving on the right occasion - my old man used to quote bits of 'The Sick Stockrider', by Adam Lindsay Gordon - takes me right back to when I was a kid to hear it:
''Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!."
Here's the whole thing if anyone's interested, before it gets the flick as being non-aviation related!
Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.
Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide
Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd,
All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.
The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense,
The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp;
I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence,
I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.
We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze,
And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;
To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze,
And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.
Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm,
And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff;
From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm,
You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.
Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place
Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;
'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase
Eight years ago — or was it nine? — last March.
'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass,
To wander as we've wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass,
Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.
'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!
Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang,
When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat;
How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang
To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat".
Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,
Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd;
And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath!
And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!
We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey,
And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,
While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay,
In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind!
There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse,
And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd;
He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse —
A narrow shave — his powder singed your beard!
In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young
Come back to us; how clearly I recall
Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung;
And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?
Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school,
Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone;
Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule,
It seems that you and I are left alone.
There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards,
It matters little what became of him;
But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards,
And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim.
And Mostyn — poor Frank Mostyn — died at last a fearful wreck,
In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong,
And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck,
Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!
Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen —
The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.
Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then;
And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.
I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil,
And life is short — the longest life a span;
I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,
Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain,
'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know —
I should live the same life over, if I had to live again;
And the chances are I go where most men go.
The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,
The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall;
And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,
And on the very sun's face weave their pall.
Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,
With never stone or rail to fence my bed;
Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave,
I may chance to hear them romping overhead.
Whirls, as you may know, the original is the famous poem 'The Man from Snowy River' - I haven't heard it put to music, but seeing as it's so known and loved in Australia it wouldn't surprise me if someone had made it into a song.
The old bush poetry can be pretty moving on the right occasion - my old man used to quote bits of 'The Sick Stockrider', by Adam Lindsay Gordon - takes me right back to when I was a kid to hear it:
''Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!."
Here's the whole thing if anyone's interested, before it gets the flick as being non-aviation related!
Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.
Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide
Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd,
All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.
The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense,
The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp;
I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence,
I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.
We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze,
And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;
To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze,
And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.
Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm,
And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff;
From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm,
You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.
Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place
Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;
'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase
Eight years ago — or was it nine? — last March.
'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass,
To wander as we've wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass,
Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.
'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!
Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang,
When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat;
How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang
To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat".
Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,
Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd;
And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath!
And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!
We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey,
And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,
While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay,
In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind!
There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse,
And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd;
He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse —
A narrow shave — his powder singed your beard!
In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young
Come back to us; how clearly I recall
Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung;
And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?
Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school,
Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone;
Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule,
It seems that you and I are left alone.
There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards,
It matters little what became of him;
But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards,
And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim.
And Mostyn — poor Frank Mostyn — died at last a fearful wreck,
In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong,
And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck,
Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!
Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen —
The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.
Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then;
And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.
I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil,
And life is short — the longest life a span;
I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,
Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain,
'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know —
I should live the same life over, if I had to live again;
And the chances are I go where most men go.
The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,
The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall;
And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,
And on the very sun's face weave their pall.
Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,
With never stone or rail to fence my bed;
Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave,
I may chance to hear them romping overhead.
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Aussie Seasprite in a Nowra Hangarette. But they be Kiwi's putting cracks all over the airframe. From a certain Company that is doing the final assembly (and not very well by the looks of the cracks).
On another note, a group named, wait for it, "Wallis & Matilda" put the Man From Snowy River to music some years ago, along with a number of other Banjo Patterson poems (Clancy of the Overflow, Walgett, etc.) There were two albums (EPs) in fact.
Cheers,
Squidly
On another note, a group named, wait for it, "Wallis & Matilda" put the Man From Snowy River to music some years ago, along with a number of other Banjo Patterson poems (Clancy of the Overflow, Walgett, etc.) There were two albums (EPs) in fact.
Cheers,
Squidly