Aww, you guys!
I went along on an air test one day, out of Escravos in a Bell 206. Next thing you knew we were headed down the Escravos River trying to get a real close look at the girls' tits in the dugout canoes. One rather perky set merited a tight 360 but by then she was cowering in the bottom of the canoe. I guess her mother had warned her about those helicopter pilots and she must not have been able to tell the difference with me. Call that "guilt by association" if you like.
I have been waiting here for that call from Caverton but... nothing. I got the pointy shoes, I figured out a paint scheme for the Bajaj, I even came up with a set of extra-excellent 5-bar epaulettes to go with the shiny rhodium-plated tin wings. Damn! Do you suppose that German S.O.B. beat me to the punch?
Your man Foamy Coolings, well, I guess he doesn't really need a stray Oyingbo to show him how to mess people over?
I never did get much into that low-level stuff, tending to go with the Dirty Harry injunction that "A man has to know his limitations." One day in Florida I did have to fly around a condo on the beach up by Fort Lauderdale in the process of chickening out due to a low ceiling but that doesn't count because it wasn't me and you cannot prove it. That was before all these nasty little video cameras and the internet. Anyway I went around the back of the building, the side without the balconies.
Try that today and you would be on the Six O'Clock News before you could say, "Flight Safety District Office? Umm, yes, what can I do for you, Sir? You want me to drop by for a chat and bring my licence and logbook? I see..."