Swing the lamp, pull up a sandbag.
Nothing actually burnt down, but .. have you ever seen an olive drab marquee in psychedelic colours?
Beer, Smoke Grenades, Bush Camp Life, and Wall Tents.....pose a terrible risk!
Far better to be the last to bed and have the worst hangover than make the mistake of quitting early!
Join Date: Nov 2010
Location: Liverpool
Age: 32
Posts: 101
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Not my story, but recycled from another forum I frequent. Believed to be true (I bet someone on here can confirm/refute):
"When my old man was in the army in his early days 17/18 ish he went to lift a lynx helicopter but missed the jack point and put the jack straight through the Kevlar/ally bottom of the helicopter. He spent the next 48 hours straight in work bodging it with fibreglass and paint. A hell of a bodge but no one noticed Monday morning or for years.
25 years later my old man has moved up the ranks traveled the world and now manages engineering for the whole fleet of gazelles and lynx helicopters and other bits. A few aircraft are due a long service overhaul as per normal, a lad knocks on my dad's office door and says your never going to believe this, we've stripped down one of the lynx's and someone has only bodged the bottom with fibreglass."
"When my old man was in the army in his early days 17/18 ish he went to lift a lynx helicopter but missed the jack point and put the jack straight through the Kevlar/ally bottom of the helicopter. He spent the next 48 hours straight in work bodging it with fibreglass and paint. A hell of a bodge but no one noticed Monday morning or for years.
25 years later my old man has moved up the ranks traveled the world and now manages engineering for the whole fleet of gazelles and lynx helicopters and other bits. A few aircraft are due a long service overhaul as per normal, a lad knocks on my dad's office door and says your never going to believe this, we've stripped down one of the lynx's and someone has only bodged the bottom with fibreglass."
One of the Whirlwind 10s on 103 Squadron went in for a major servicing in the late sixties. On stripping the paint down they found a skin repair made out of Tiger Beer cans still with the labels on.
On exercise in Canada with 230 Sqn in '74. Towards the end of exercise, Boss was invited to a party out in the sticks hosted by the Staffordshire Regt that we had been supporting. He opted to fly the Puma from the left hand seat before jumping out for the bash to be held in a large marquee. He made the approach downwind and came to a hover about 20ft from the tent. Said tent inflated like a balloon, lifted and pulled all the guy ropes out and deposited the curry etc onto the grass. Boss pulled max pitch and shot back to base with me still as his No 2. He nicked the Padre's outfit from his room and, dressed to kill, was flown back to scene of his crime by me. I landed a bit further away to let him out and could see the chef still scraping curry back into the bowls. The Boss had the sense to take a case of Scotch with him which seemed to prevent a lynching. Happy days!
Then there was the Whirlwind Sqn in the Far East in the '60s who'd had a spate of blade and tail strikes going into clearings. The boss announced at morning brief that he would personally arrange for the next 'culprit' to be Court Marshalled. Of course, it was he, the next day. Known for ever after as Tail Rotor Pr**e - not to be confused with Bathroom Scales Pr**ce - but that's another story.
Nigerian In Law
Unruly Pax
Exercise Reforger 1988; as CAAC's personal taxi driver (in a Gazelle) I was to take him to any location in NORTHAG (his area of responsibility/authority) during daylight hours. He went on to become the first ever "home grown" DAAC (later DAAvn).
In practice this entailed flying him and whoever he had invited along for the ride from one C.P. to another for briefings and "refreshments" which routinely resulted in me dropping him at HQ fairly sozzled before returning to Fassberg each afternoon.
One day I was given an 8 figure grid reference to meet up with a moving C.P. and he told me that would fly; this was unusual because he hadn't flown for years and was totally un-current. It was made all the more challenging because he and his guest (my own C.O.) were both p**sed. At first I refused on currency and tech log grounds, but after much threatening I stupidly capitulated.
The aircraft was parked on a tennis court in a confined area and entailed a vertical departure. The red over-torque light illuminated solidly as he pulled pitch, despite my pressing down on the L.H. collective.
We arrived at the grid reference to find an empty space. After circling for a couple of minutes I was told in no uncertain terms that I had gotten lost as we were clearly in the wrong place. Things deteriorated rapidly when my C.O. (who was as pi**ed as a fart) started slapping me on the back of my helmet and shouting that I was finished, an embarrassment etc.
At this point I completely lost the plot. I took control with some extremely forceful words and decided to return to H.Q. En route the berating and helmet slapping increased until I could no longer stand it; I landed in a lay-by, stopped the blades and told them to get out. They were incredulous but eventually exited the aircraft. They were picked up by the Corps Commander's Lynx about an hour later.
I was grounded immediately upon landing at Fassberg and the next day given a vehicle to return home. A week later I was summoned to CAAC's office at Bielefeld and told I was to be court-martialled. This threat didn't surprise me since nothing had happened, no charges, escalation etc prior to the summons. So I responded by telling him that would be fine as there are two sides to every story and the huge number of people who had seen him stagger out of the aircraft day after day would all be called as witnesses.
I was told I would never serve in the same theatre as him, marched out, sent to Northern Ireland 10 days later and posted to Hong Kong/Brunei while I was there. It did occur to me that if I hit my O.C. in Hong Kong I may have gotten an exchange posting or somewhere else exotic ! But I signed off instead and after a very pleasant few months at Middle Wallop doing my ATPL(H) went to sunny Aberdeen.
After a couple of years I was contacted by the M.O.D. to ask if I would undergo a medical examination on my knee as I could be entitled to compensation for an injury I had sustained during my 15 years in the Army. Of course I agreed, who wouldn't ? The doctor who turned up at my house was a retired Colonel who, when he discovered I had been an Army pilot, asked me if I knew ****St J L***e, who had been DAAC. I told him I had and was about to launch into a huge tirade about what an ********** he'd been when the doctor told me they were great friends. I kept my mouth shut and got the War Pension.
I was told years later that the ********** in question, once retired, had taken a shotgun out to his gazebo and blown his own brains out. Never found out why. Tragic.
Over the next 25 years I was asked on numerous occasions whether I was the same guy who "threw the Brigadier out in a lay-by"; while never confirming or denying it I got many free beers !
NEO
In practice this entailed flying him and whoever he had invited along for the ride from one C.P. to another for briefings and "refreshments" which routinely resulted in me dropping him at HQ fairly sozzled before returning to Fassberg each afternoon.
One day I was given an 8 figure grid reference to meet up with a moving C.P. and he told me that would fly; this was unusual because he hadn't flown for years and was totally un-current. It was made all the more challenging because he and his guest (my own C.O.) were both p**sed. At first I refused on currency and tech log grounds, but after much threatening I stupidly capitulated.
The aircraft was parked on a tennis court in a confined area and entailed a vertical departure. The red over-torque light illuminated solidly as he pulled pitch, despite my pressing down on the L.H. collective.
We arrived at the grid reference to find an empty space. After circling for a couple of minutes I was told in no uncertain terms that I had gotten lost as we were clearly in the wrong place. Things deteriorated rapidly when my C.O. (who was as pi**ed as a fart) started slapping me on the back of my helmet and shouting that I was finished, an embarrassment etc.
At this point I completely lost the plot. I took control with some extremely forceful words and decided to return to H.Q. En route the berating and helmet slapping increased until I could no longer stand it; I landed in a lay-by, stopped the blades and told them to get out. They were incredulous but eventually exited the aircraft. They were picked up by the Corps Commander's Lynx about an hour later.
I was grounded immediately upon landing at Fassberg and the next day given a vehicle to return home. A week later I was summoned to CAAC's office at Bielefeld and told I was to be court-martialled. This threat didn't surprise me since nothing had happened, no charges, escalation etc prior to the summons. So I responded by telling him that would be fine as there are two sides to every story and the huge number of people who had seen him stagger out of the aircraft day after day would all be called as witnesses.
I was told I would never serve in the same theatre as him, marched out, sent to Northern Ireland 10 days later and posted to Hong Kong/Brunei while I was there. It did occur to me that if I hit my O.C. in Hong Kong I may have gotten an exchange posting or somewhere else exotic ! But I signed off instead and after a very pleasant few months at Middle Wallop doing my ATPL(H) went to sunny Aberdeen.
After a couple of years I was contacted by the M.O.D. to ask if I would undergo a medical examination on my knee as I could be entitled to compensation for an injury I had sustained during my 15 years in the Army. Of course I agreed, who wouldn't ? The doctor who turned up at my house was a retired Colonel who, when he discovered I had been an Army pilot, asked me if I knew ****St J L***e, who had been DAAC. I told him I had and was about to launch into a huge tirade about what an ********** he'd been when the doctor told me they were great friends. I kept my mouth shut and got the War Pension.
I was told years later that the ********** in question, once retired, had taken a shotgun out to his gazebo and blown his own brains out. Never found out why. Tragic.
Over the next 25 years I was asked on numerous occasions whether I was the same guy who "threw the Brigadier out in a lay-by"; while never confirming or denying it I got many free beers !
NEO
Last edited by Nigerian Expat Outlaw; 18th Oct 2016 at 22:02. Reason: Told you about my English O level !
Tasked to fly the Division Commander of a Mech Infantry Division while in the Army National Guard (Territorials) following two tours of combat in a small place far away in Southeast Asia, I was assigned a Bell Kiowa.
We proceeded from one Scripted Exercise to another all over Fort Stewart, Georgia. Being a very warm, humid, place during the Summer we were sans doors up front.
The Boss Fellah asked I take him to a particular road junction where the Schedule called for a Meeting Engagement between two opposing Tank Units equipped with M-60 Tanks. For training purposes, the Turret Mounted Browning M-2 .50 Caliber MG's were replaced with Acetylene powered training weapons that simulated the MA Deuce MG.
At the appointed location, upon our arrival the show was on, lots of dust, smoke, and commotion as only Tanks maneuvering in fairly wooded terrain can produce.
To give the Boss a good vantage point I started making steep banked orbits overhead the Tanks at pretty low height with the Boss on the low side....and the Boss was quite enjoying the show and I found it to very interesting as well.
During one of the orbits, while looking down through the Boss Man's Door....in pretty near a Vertical Bank.....the focus of the rotation centered on a single stationary Tank who'se TC was standing in the Turret with this hands on the MG. As I made the third orbit around his head....the TC pointed the MG up at us and it seemed it was pointing right at my nose....and when he cut loose with a long burst and the muzzle flash lit up...and banging sound was heard....I had what might be called a short out of body experience to another place and time.
Instincts learned in that place not so many years before took over....and I did what would be called an evasive maneuver....in spades! I seem to recall we went from an orbit in one direction to the opposite direction with an odd roll over the top kind of thing in the middle with much clattering of blades and an odd sort of vibration.
As we were scooting along in the tree tops going as fast as the old Kiowa could go away from the shooting.....with the dust, dirt, maps, Grease pencils, Script, and I think part of the General's breakfast going everywhere....I realized what I had done.
The General was very pasty faced....had discarded his grip on everything but the seat sides and was staring straight ahead with a very...very... odd look about him.
As I was considering what my next posting might be....he turned to me and very quietly said....."Pretty realistic aren't they?".
Yes....they are....cause I swear till today I thought I had seen Tracers!
We proceeded from one Scripted Exercise to another all over Fort Stewart, Georgia. Being a very warm, humid, place during the Summer we were sans doors up front.
The Boss Fellah asked I take him to a particular road junction where the Schedule called for a Meeting Engagement between two opposing Tank Units equipped with M-60 Tanks. For training purposes, the Turret Mounted Browning M-2 .50 Caliber MG's were replaced with Acetylene powered training weapons that simulated the MA Deuce MG.
At the appointed location, upon our arrival the show was on, lots of dust, smoke, and commotion as only Tanks maneuvering in fairly wooded terrain can produce.
To give the Boss a good vantage point I started making steep banked orbits overhead the Tanks at pretty low height with the Boss on the low side....and the Boss was quite enjoying the show and I found it to very interesting as well.
During one of the orbits, while looking down through the Boss Man's Door....in pretty near a Vertical Bank.....the focus of the rotation centered on a single stationary Tank who'se TC was standing in the Turret with this hands on the MG. As I made the third orbit around his head....the TC pointed the MG up at us and it seemed it was pointing right at my nose....and when he cut loose with a long burst and the muzzle flash lit up...and banging sound was heard....I had what might be called a short out of body experience to another place and time.
Instincts learned in that place not so many years before took over....and I did what would be called an evasive maneuver....in spades! I seem to recall we went from an orbit in one direction to the opposite direction with an odd roll over the top kind of thing in the middle with much clattering of blades and an odd sort of vibration.
As we were scooting along in the tree tops going as fast as the old Kiowa could go away from the shooting.....with the dust, dirt, maps, Grease pencils, Script, and I think part of the General's breakfast going everywhere....I realized what I had done.
The General was very pasty faced....had discarded his grip on everything but the seat sides and was staring straight ahead with a very...very... odd look about him.
As I was considering what my next posting might be....he turned to me and very quietly said....."Pretty realistic aren't they?".
Yes....they are....cause I swear till today I thought I had seen Tracers!
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
"So many of the yarns would have to be put into a 'Fiction' section as a lot of people would refuse to believe they were true."
We used to have a "Transit Night," with free drinks for all, paid for by the Black Sardine ... out of Company funds, but still ....
I had been away, perhaps even working, when one of my fixed-wing colleagues, actually a member of a prominent head-hunting tribe from Malaysia, came to me with a question once I was back at base in Isolo.
It was a little hard to understand the question since we were both sort of drunk, plus he had that Asian predisposition to becoming very drunk and confused on very little beer, but it ran kind of like this:
"Ah, [chuks], I had big problem with big man, very big, very angry, he shouting at me last night." So that would have been on a Transit Night ....
"Who was he then, this big man, and what was his problem?"
"He was wearing blue tee-shirt, very big man, very angry, shouting very much. I no understand why .... "
Next day I was in Port Harcourt, when I went in search of our suspect, to try to pour oil upon these troubled waters.
The first one I met then was an ex-AAC sergeant pilot ... big but rather jovial, so nope, probably not him, and when I asked he had no idea what I was talking about. He had been stuck "down the line" for quite a while.
Then there was this former Royal Marine, whose namesake had led the Tennessee Cut-ups. Kind of gnarly, sure, but too short of stature ... another blank.
"Sport-f*cking"? No way, because he was only interested in one thing and it was not getting into arguments, plus he was about as tall as a garden gnome.
Just then a giant of a man hove into view, both large and gnarly, so that I asked him, "Were you shouting at our little friend [name redacted] in the bar the other night?"
That was like poking a volcano, since he promptly erupted. "That bloody [bad word]! I bought the little [even worse word] a beer on my own account, when he promptly told me that we transits never paid for any drinks! [Lots more very bad words]!"
I explained that [name redacted] was actually a very nice guy, but one who had a genetic predisposition to becoming very loose-tongued after just a few drinks, and that now he had to live in fear with the fixed notion that he was going to be squashed like a bug by this angry giant in a blue tee-shirt for some reason totally unknown to him.
Once it became clear that this was all just a misunderstanding the giant agreed to tell the head-hunter that this was just one of those things, so that I was able to go back to Isolo and explain what had gone wrong then.
So there you have two unbelievable things: The Black Sardine being generous (which he actually could be, at times of his choosing); and me sorting out some trouble instead of starting some trouble.
We used to have a "Transit Night," with free drinks for all, paid for by the Black Sardine ... out of Company funds, but still ....
I had been away, perhaps even working, when one of my fixed-wing colleagues, actually a member of a prominent head-hunting tribe from Malaysia, came to me with a question once I was back at base in Isolo.
It was a little hard to understand the question since we were both sort of drunk, plus he had that Asian predisposition to becoming very drunk and confused on very little beer, but it ran kind of like this:
"Ah, [chuks], I had big problem with big man, very big, very angry, he shouting at me last night." So that would have been on a Transit Night ....
"Who was he then, this big man, and what was his problem?"
"He was wearing blue tee-shirt, very big man, very angry, shouting very much. I no understand why .... "
Next day I was in Port Harcourt, when I went in search of our suspect, to try to pour oil upon these troubled waters.
The first one I met then was an ex-AAC sergeant pilot ... big but rather jovial, so nope, probably not him, and when I asked he had no idea what I was talking about. He had been stuck "down the line" for quite a while.
Then there was this former Royal Marine, whose namesake had led the Tennessee Cut-ups. Kind of gnarly, sure, but too short of stature ... another blank.
"Sport-f*cking"? No way, because he was only interested in one thing and it was not getting into arguments, plus he was about as tall as a garden gnome.
Just then a giant of a man hove into view, both large and gnarly, so that I asked him, "Were you shouting at our little friend [name redacted] in the bar the other night?"
That was like poking a volcano, since he promptly erupted. "That bloody [bad word]! I bought the little [even worse word] a beer on my own account, when he promptly told me that we transits never paid for any drinks! [Lots more very bad words]!"
I explained that [name redacted] was actually a very nice guy, but one who had a genetic predisposition to becoming very loose-tongued after just a few drinks, and that now he had to live in fear with the fixed notion that he was going to be squashed like a bug by this angry giant in a blue tee-shirt for some reason totally unknown to him.
Once it became clear that this was all just a misunderstanding the giant agreed to tell the head-hunter that this was just one of those things, so that I was able to go back to Isolo and explain what had gone wrong then.
So there you have two unbelievable things: The Black Sardine being generous (which he actually could be, at times of his choosing); and me sorting out some trouble instead of starting some trouble.
Chuks dear boy....you are far too clever by far.
But should your story about the generosity of a very well known descendant of the meanest bunch in the UK belong in the Sandlamp and Swing Bag Thread?
The Black Sardine had fallen from the Roof of his home in the UK and been injured ... when the news was reported to the occupants of the Tea Room at a Southern North Sea Base....from behind a newspaper was heard...."Nothing minor I hope!".
But should your story about the generosity of a very well known descendant of the meanest bunch in the UK belong in the Sandlamp and Swing Bag Thread?
The Black Sardine had fallen from the Roof of his home in the UK and been injured ... when the news was reported to the occupants of the Tea Room at a Southern North Sea Base....from behind a newspaper was heard...."Nothing minor I hope!".
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
How they invented copper wire ....
Two Scots were fighting over a penny ....
SASless, you can put that one in the "Fiction" section here if you like, along with me trying to be helpful for once. (My role as OIC Condoms does not count.)
I found the bloke to be a good guy, and anyway, it took two or three people to replace him when he retired! That has to count for something.
On the other hand, yes, I did have to present myself to him for the close inspection of the books every Friday, answering pointed questions about petty cash; light bulbs; and toilet rolls. That was during my tenure as Acting Deputy Chief Pilot, the peak of my career. (Years later I was playing that one for laughs in the bar, saying that I had once been "Acting Chief Pilot" when the Black Sardine shot back with, "Acting Deputy Chief Pilot!" which only made us laugh all the harder.)
One day Godwin C. Jonah, proprietor of the Shell Passenger Lounge, appeared to ask for a carton of "Peak" brand condensed milk, when he scored 24 little cans and then slithered off.
Two weeks later there he was again, with a new problem: he was getting complaints from the "ogahs" about the use of powdered milk for the tea and coffee, so that he needed Peak milk. "But Godwin, you just got a case of Peak milk two weeks ago!"
"Ah! That was for the staff, Sah! We only have powdered milk for the passengers."
I told Godwin that if he did not know to use the good stuff for the passengers then there was nothing I could do to help him, and then I went back to counting light bulbs and toilet rolls.
Later on I became the Safety Officer, after my predecessor had died a horrible death in a road accident. Wasn't that fun!
That Shell guy used to go through the new terminal we were building for him in Lagos, chasing away anybody (meaning pretty much everybody) caught wearing "Nigerian safety shoes" (flip-flops) when they were meant to be wearing proper steel-toed safety boots, unbearably hot and uncomfortable under local conditions. Guess who had to sort that one out? (I think we put an early-warning system in place.)
SASless, you can put that one in the "Fiction" section here if you like, along with me trying to be helpful for once. (My role as OIC Condoms does not count.)
I found the bloke to be a good guy, and anyway, it took two or three people to replace him when he retired! That has to count for something.
On the other hand, yes, I did have to present myself to him for the close inspection of the books every Friday, answering pointed questions about petty cash; light bulbs; and toilet rolls. That was during my tenure as Acting Deputy Chief Pilot, the peak of my career. (Years later I was playing that one for laughs in the bar, saying that I had once been "Acting Chief Pilot" when the Black Sardine shot back with, "Acting Deputy Chief Pilot!" which only made us laugh all the harder.)
One day Godwin C. Jonah, proprietor of the Shell Passenger Lounge, appeared to ask for a carton of "Peak" brand condensed milk, when he scored 24 little cans and then slithered off.
Two weeks later there he was again, with a new problem: he was getting complaints from the "ogahs" about the use of powdered milk for the tea and coffee, so that he needed Peak milk. "But Godwin, you just got a case of Peak milk two weeks ago!"
"Ah! That was for the staff, Sah! We only have powdered milk for the passengers."
I told Godwin that if he did not know to use the good stuff for the passengers then there was nothing I could do to help him, and then I went back to counting light bulbs and toilet rolls.
Later on I became the Safety Officer, after my predecessor had died a horrible death in a road accident. Wasn't that fun!
That Shell guy used to go through the new terminal we were building for him in Lagos, chasing away anybody (meaning pretty much everybody) caught wearing "Nigerian safety shoes" (flip-flops) when they were meant to be wearing proper steel-toed safety boots, unbearably hot and uncomfortable under local conditions. Guess who had to sort that one out? (I think we put an early-warning system in place.)
Later on I became the Safety Officer, after my predecessor had died a horrible death in a road accident.
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Our guy lasted 21 days in a UK hospital that specialized in the treatment of burns, thanks to his exceptional degree of fitness. They told us that the only part of his body that had not suffered third-degree burns was the soles of his feet, so that he was doomed from the time of the accident, really.
It just took a bit longer than usual for organ failure and pneumonia to set in and do for him, even though Management had first promised us that he would be just fine, along with telling us how badly burnt he was. I did not bother to contradict Management that time.
The person he went back to rescue lasted about four days in a local clinic. They had the picture in the paper of the Minister for Health paying a visit to what looked like a big pink and grey lump of flesh, when the Minister was dressed in street clothing, not all gowned up to prevent infection. So much for that!
The driver made it out seemingly just singed, but then dropped dead, probably from having inhaled flames. Another ex-pat had one arm all burnt up, third-degree burns again.
It was a little double-cab pick-up truck, a "ute" or a "bakkie," and one door only unlatched from the outside, so that the expat had to reach out the window into the flames to open the door that he was sat alongside of. That was Carl Souter, the guy who owned the Crocodile Club, and they were all on their way to a Hash.
Running back into an inferno wearing a tee-shirt, shorts, and tennies ... I don't think I would have done that, not for anyone, so that I would not want to say what sort of a man it took to do that. He was brave, anyway.
It was so typically Nigerian, the whole affair. A tanker full of petrol had tipped over, spilling its load. Instead of going around it, showing up late for their stupid Hash I suppose, our guy told the driver to go through the spill. The engine on the pick-up stalled in the middle of the spill then, probably from the vapors, then the driver hit the starter, and then all the petrol lit off, also catching all the villagers out there scooping up petrol with anything they had ready to hand.
It just took a bit longer than usual for organ failure and pneumonia to set in and do for him, even though Management had first promised us that he would be just fine, along with telling us how badly burnt he was. I did not bother to contradict Management that time.
The person he went back to rescue lasted about four days in a local clinic. They had the picture in the paper of the Minister for Health paying a visit to what looked like a big pink and grey lump of flesh, when the Minister was dressed in street clothing, not all gowned up to prevent infection. So much for that!
The driver made it out seemingly just singed, but then dropped dead, probably from having inhaled flames. Another ex-pat had one arm all burnt up, third-degree burns again.
It was a little double-cab pick-up truck, a "ute" or a "bakkie," and one door only unlatched from the outside, so that the expat had to reach out the window into the flames to open the door that he was sat alongside of. That was Carl Souter, the guy who owned the Crocodile Club, and they were all on their way to a Hash.
Running back into an inferno wearing a tee-shirt, shorts, and tennies ... I don't think I would have done that, not for anyone, so that I would not want to say what sort of a man it took to do that. He was brave, anyway.
It was so typically Nigerian, the whole affair. A tanker full of petrol had tipped over, spilling its load. Instead of going around it, showing up late for their stupid Hash I suppose, our guy told the driver to go through the spill. The engine on the pick-up stalled in the middle of the spill then, probably from the vapors, then the driver hit the starter, and then all the petrol lit off, also catching all the villagers out there scooping up petrol with anything they had ready to hand.
Apologies - I had the rest but forgot it took that long. I used to really enjoy chatting with him on the aforementioned 'transit nights'. A real gentleman.
Nigerian In Law
A real tragedy and an awful way to die, albeit heroically.
On the subject of F/W pilots, whatever happened to Chris P**y ? I came through the Centre of Excellence en route to leave and was told he had literally disappeared in the dead of night after being caught up in some sort of money scam/scheme with a Lebanese "business man".
Always seemed like a stand up sort of bloke to me, especially alongside the other denizens of the Lagos operation (the God Bothering Guitar Playing CP and his evangelical wife, Alistair G**ley, Chris Ca**ert, Ute J**es to name but a few).
But then one never knows.........
NEO
On the subject of F/W pilots, whatever happened to Chris P**y ? I came through the Centre of Excellence en route to leave and was told he had literally disappeared in the dead of night after being caught up in some sort of money scam/scheme with a Lebanese "business man".
Always seemed like a stand up sort of bloke to me, especially alongside the other denizens of the Lagos operation (the God Bothering Guitar Playing CP and his evangelical wife, Alistair G**ley, Chris Ca**ert, Ute J**es to name but a few).
But then one never knows.........
NEO
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
That was a very interesting story, but a long one and one I watched play out from slow beginnings right to the quick end: an elaborate sort of "419" that false friends played on Chris.
I don't have time for that right now, so tune in tomorrow.
(Nigerian Statute 419 is the one that applies to fraud, for those of us who are not familiar with the Center of Excrement. That itself comes from the car number plates, which read "Lagos - Center of Excellence.")
I don't have time for that right now, so tune in tomorrow.
(Nigerian Statute 419 is the one that applies to fraud, for those of us who are not familiar with the Center of Excrement. That itself comes from the car number plates, which read "Lagos - Center of Excellence.")
419 struck a few folks...like the one fellow out of Warri who going to "wash" money was it....and get rich selling blank paper....and who had to leave country rather hurriedly!
I still like the record for the shortest tenure as Chief Pilot....what was it three days before the Locals revolted and rejected the Lash.
It amazes me to consider the varied success folks had as they climbed that greasy pole of management. What really amazes me is how some made it as high up that greasy pole as they did and not get killed outright for their various Sins against the Staff.
I still like the record for the shortest tenure as Chief Pilot....what was it three days before the Locals revolted and rejected the Lash.
It amazes me to consider the varied success folks had as they climbed that greasy pole of management. What really amazes me is how some made it as high up that greasy pole as they did and not get killed outright for their various Sins against the Staff.
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Nigeria did have to be reckoned with. The locals were funny that way, not liking being treated like the dirt under one's boots.
A hangar party for the locals was cancelled in Lagos on cost-saving grounds. Next morning, all the fire extinguishers were gone from the hangar, when nobody had seen nothing! (I was told that story when I asked why there were those cages made of re-bar around all the fire extinguishers.)
I was once offered an almost-new laptop in Warri, when I wondered who was selling one of those, and why.
It seems that some lucky fellow expat, a new arrival, had met the girl of his dreams in Auntie's Kitchen: young, black, beautiful, and willing, very willing, so that some sort of deal was struck. Maybe it was love, maybe it was money, but anyway, off to a love nest they went.
No sooner had Mr. Lucky got his pants off there than the door flew open with a crash to reveal the forces of law and order, appearing by some lucky coincidence to save the virtue of a shy 15 year-old Nigerian virgin! So the expat was gone in a hurry, leaving some stuff behind, such as five thousand quid for the Police Benevolent Fund ... and an almost-new laptop.
A hangar party for the locals was cancelled in Lagos on cost-saving grounds. Next morning, all the fire extinguishers were gone from the hangar, when nobody had seen nothing! (I was told that story when I asked why there were those cages made of re-bar around all the fire extinguishers.)
I was once offered an almost-new laptop in Warri, when I wondered who was selling one of those, and why.
It seems that some lucky fellow expat, a new arrival, had met the girl of his dreams in Auntie's Kitchen: young, black, beautiful, and willing, very willing, so that some sort of deal was struck. Maybe it was love, maybe it was money, but anyway, off to a love nest they went.
No sooner had Mr. Lucky got his pants off there than the door flew open with a crash to reveal the forces of law and order, appearing by some lucky coincidence to save the virtue of a shy 15 year-old Nigerian virgin! So the expat was gone in a hurry, leaving some stuff behind, such as five thousand quid for the Police Benevolent Fund ... and an almost-new laptop.
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Germany
Age: 76
Posts: 1,561
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
I did promise that story, but it's such a sad thing, in a way. I have it all in my head so that I just need to write it down, but there won't be any fun in that. It was a real WAWA, that one.
There is that thing about Africa: You can have just one little thing wrong with you, just one crack in your armor. Africa will find that crack, get inside, and eat you up! That's what happened to Chris, I think. Anyway, that's how I want to write it up, and it's my story to tell.
It's not like that time in Auntie's Kitchen, getting a lecture on the rights of the modern woman as all these tarts were flitting past completely unnoticed by our high-minded lecturer. I thought that was a p*ss-take for a very long time, that he was satirizing modern feminism, when I was playing along with that. It turned out that he was totally serious, and that he had not noticed that I was being satirical! That was hilarious! Right at the end, the butterfly prawns were served, dripping with oil. "Do you use King's Oil?" asked the lecturer.
"Oh yes Sah!"
"I never eat anything fried in King's Oil," said he. "Take them away," said he.
"Oh, goody. Let me have those prawns, please," said I, and then I fell upon them like the wolf on the fold, like SASless on a virgin ... bar card.
There is that thing about Africa: You can have just one little thing wrong with you, just one crack in your armor. Africa will find that crack, get inside, and eat you up! That's what happened to Chris, I think. Anyway, that's how I want to write it up, and it's my story to tell.
It's not like that time in Auntie's Kitchen, getting a lecture on the rights of the modern woman as all these tarts were flitting past completely unnoticed by our high-minded lecturer. I thought that was a p*ss-take for a very long time, that he was satirizing modern feminism, when I was playing along with that. It turned out that he was totally serious, and that he had not noticed that I was being satirical! That was hilarious! Right at the end, the butterfly prawns were served, dripping with oil. "Do you use King's Oil?" asked the lecturer.
"Oh yes Sah!"
"I never eat anything fried in King's Oil," said he. "Take them away," said he.
"Oh, goody. Let me have those prawns, please," said I, and then I fell upon them like the wolf on the fold, like SASless on a virgin ... bar card.
For sure my Virgin Bar card looked like one of those darting Tarts when I passed back through headed out on Leave....must be Chuks was helping me out in my absence.