There had been heavy snow over northern England (it happens occasionally in winter), and there had been widespread power failures in Geordieland. Three of us, two pilots and an engineer, were sent to help out the local electricity board.
We landed in a small field, covered in knee-deep snow, to pick up spares for the client. The engineer was out of the aircraft, supervising the loading; I was non-handling. I saw three men the other side of a nearby fence, gesticulating wildly, big grins on their faces, eyes shining bright. I ignored them, but my mate wondered what was their problem.
“It’s three drunken Geordies,” I said. “They just want a ride.”
He was unconvinced, and waited until the engineer finished his job, struggled back into the aircraft and dusted off most of the snow covering him. Then he asked him to go and see what these chaps wanted.
Highly unamused engineer stomped across the field, and what followed was a demonstration of the universal medium of body language. Engineer, now spitting feathers, stomped back to the aicraft, struggled into the aircraft, dusted off most of the snow covering him.
“It’s three drunken Geordies. They just want a ride,” he said. Or words to that effect.
“OK,” said the pilot. “Watch this.” He applied the perfect amount of collective, and I watched a wall of snow head towards the men. Two of them were not quite as inebriated as the other, and they hit the deck just in time. The other, still bearing an impossibly wide grin and with bright shining eyes, stood there. He had the presence of mind to cover his eyes, eventually, and I watched as snow rapidly built up over his body, beginning at the centre of his head, arms and limbs, and spreading outwards. Within a couple of seconds, all I could see was his outline. He was a white silhouette.
As we transitioned away, I saw what was now the front half of a snowman fall to the ground, and two men on the ground lauging their socks off.