During the chipmunk phase of the pilot’s course at MW the time had come for our first solos. Naturally we all agreed to meet up just South of Salisbury for the obligatory dogfight. My very good friend found himself a few hours later at three thousand feet stooging around the cathedral waiting for said matey to arrive. Once spied the dive was commenced straight out of the sun and as he flashed past the lonesome chippy he was heard to cry; "dagga, dagga, dagga" on the radio in the time honoured tradition. It was only as he reached terminal velocity abeam the target that he realised there were two very visible helmets to be seen!! Back in the students crewroom it didn’t take long before the call came through on the tannoy summoning him to the CFIs office where he was asked in no uncertain terms as to what the f**k he thought he was doing and what the hell was he saying “dagga, dagga, dagga” for on the radio? To which my friend replied; “I’m sorry Sir, I was to close for rockets I had to go for guns” - He passed the course too!