126.9
27th Mar 2004, 12:13
Well it feels great to finally have spring upon us here in Germany. I've said it before and I'll say it again; winter is FABULOUS! For about a week! The problem is of course, that it lasts around three full months and takes pity on no man, woman or beast. By now my skin has the texture of an 85-year-old Soweto pensioner's heels. I also know where every ache or pain that I'll ever suffer is going to emanate from. My muscles, joints and bones have spent three months communicating with me and they have had nothing nice to say. I've been through 45 gallons of creams, oils and herbal cures. My toes have spent 45% of the winter in a frozen solid state, whilst my fingertips were warmed up continuously by scratching my ever-itching exterior. Yes spring, bring on the sneezes, coughs and colds, but whatever the cost, get rid of that darn winter.
As some of you know and others do not; I've spent the past four weeks at home preparing myself for a huge aviation event. Although most folk weren't even aware of the fact that this particular show was about to transpire, it had become my obsession, and thus most of my day's hours over this period, have disappeared into hundreds of pages of text and multiple viewings of aviation video material. Following my education in the South Pacific Ocean over December, Christmas, New Year and January, I, and a Bedford-load of other pilots, were invited to the Coconut Airways pre-selection screening and interview early in February. Since I'd last applied to Coconut more than a year ago, I'd long given up hope of ever hearing from them and so was caught totally unawares on the day. Also, going straight from My Tarawa Adventures into the selection board on a bitterly cold and wet London afternoon, was clearly not the ideal way to get invited back. And that of course is primarily the goal: a second invitation
Anyway, after I'd told the selection panel that I "...hadn't done a stitch of work in preparation..." for that particular day's outing and, after they'd asked "...what makes you think we'll be inviting you back?", I traveled home proud of the fact that at least I'd received an initial interview at Coconut Airways, which is more than any of those second-rate sky-jockeys at Emirates and SAA can say. What's more, it was the middle of winter and my arse was itching (get it?) to go home.
You can imagine my surprise a few days later when, I was sat in front of the computer with my third bottle of Germany's best pils already in my gut, contemplating the great trek down three storeys of stairs to fetch a fourth, and my inbox is suddenly lit up by the arrival of the Coconut Airways email inviting me back for the technical interview and simulator assessment and check ride. ****** me. They'd stuffed up and I was not going to be the one to let the cat out of the bag. And thus started my four weeks of research, study and clearing out of the old mind cobwebs.
Since none of these factors are in question, taking into account my natural humility and considering that I don't have all day, I'm not going to get into great detail here regarding my mental agility, intellectual prowess or superior aviation background and expertise. Suffice it to say that I was suitably prepared for this encounter and more confident than the African National Congress was when they won the South African elections, having falsified over 66% of the electoratal votes in 1994. I was a steamroller with brake failure on Signal Hill! A heifer on the streets of Pamplona with a greasy, young Spaniard in my sights! A Soutie (Pom for you foreigners) on the foothills of Ladysmith with 10,000 Zulus after my arse! An Aussie at the moment of realisation in The Blue Oyster Bar! I think you get the picture...?
To cut a long story short (I'm a man of very few words as you know), after I'd batted the technical quiz into the stands with the skill and precision of the South African Minister of Transport that time he had to talk his way out of a life sentence when he was caught with his hand in the till and the receipts in his pocket for the ATPL's (pilot licenses; for you earthbound few) that he'd sold, it was off to the flight simulator for me. Now, as those of you that have had the honour of accompanying me on the flight-deck will know; and I say this tongue-in-cheek since it is usually you singing my praises and not me blowing my own trumpet, I was born with a yoke in my hands, rudder pedals at my size tens and a fistful of Pratt and Whitney. Look, keeping the blue side on top and the green side on the bottom, is only the beginning, because stroking that beast with the skill of Richard Gere in American Gigolo back in the early eighties is where I come into my own.
As you can imagine, shortly after rotation that bronco started bucking and doing it's best to chuck yours truly off and ultimately out of the game. Now (as you know) I'm not one to brag, but when old Tonto gets agro, 126.9 starts having fun. Those boys observing were in awe and learned respect. No sooner had the first fire-bell rang when I pumped off a shot of that insecticide that'll kill a JT9D-7R4G2 (engine; moron) in 10 seconds flat. Passing acceleration altitude I started reigning her in and getting her back where she belonged. Trying to maintain altitude to within 500 feet either side was reminiscent of my wild and misspent youth, when I was wrestling anacondas in South America, fighting alligators in Florida and pissing on puff adders in Africa! In all honesty and sincerity it is at times like those that I'm overcome by sensations of tingling, numbness and a slight stirring in my loins. Getting her under control in swift and decisive action I decided to turn her around and get her back to the paddock. I wrestled her over to my left, flipped her inverted and kicked her in the belly till she came upright again and leveled off at 3000 feet, give or take a bit. I could see the looks of amazement and admiration in the faces of my inspectors as they rearranged their seatbelts and wiped the saliva from their eyebrows. Now, fighting her over further to my left and taking a descent from radar control simultaneously, I pointed her at that localizer with the precision and talent of Thabo Mbeke back-pedaling, when he'd told the world AIDS conference in Durban that time that the white man had to stop making up these diseases who's aim it was to stop the black man from having sex. Next, I nudged her nose down onto the glideslope so subtly, that it reminded me of that time in 1987 when Jan Spies told a tale on "Spies en Plessis" about the policeman in the Karoo who arrested the young kitchen girl down at the Royal Hotel, but felt so sorry for her that he decided to let her stay at his house and share his nice warm bed, rather than spend a night in the cold cell down at the Blue Lantern Inn.
Touchdown, as usual, was a graceful affair and as we slithered to a halt I could sense the atmosphere in that simulator was a mix of fear, respect and relief. Being accustomed to such reactions from my peers, colleagues and various strangers, one might well be inclined to shrug it off and pay it no regard. Since I’m an over-sensitive individual who considers others ahead of myself, I offered my assessment team autographed photos of myself as well as free, signed copies of my autobiography “Adventures in the Good Life of the African Ace”, (available NOW at a book store or CNA near you) which they at first were too humbled to accept. Not quite knowing how these mere mortals were feeling, I insisted that they not only accept the gifts but also offered to take the check ride a second time, just incase they felt that they’d missed something.
Since this is a short story and accepting my good intentions in telling it so that you too may experience the success, which I have had, at your next selection board, I feel it necessary to indulge a little into the intricacies of the company sponsored social events which inevitably are a part of the programme, whether you like it or not. Actually, it reminded me of that time back in the 1979 when Michael De Morgan was reading the eight o’clock news on SABC 1, and the camera panned out from him only to reveal, that since television news readers aren’t paid a great deal of money, he could not afford the bottom part of his work suit. Being a man of pride however he was not to be embarrassed or flustered by this fact, and thus donned a classy pair of Jockey boxer shorts which he’d bought from Mohamedy’s in Durban, and which had been signed by Cat Stevens himself, and had thus not been washed since the Autumn of 1971. You can therefore understand how I must have felt later that evening at the company sponsored social event, when I took it upon myself to display to the selection panel and my peers, my willingness to fit in, and not to stick out from the crowd or show anybody up, by wearing a flash suit. No sir, not me: I rocked up in my best safari suit which I’d bought second-hand down at the Durban Harbour Flea Market, my Port Natal High School rugby socks and my brand new pair of Doc Maartens loafers. I was a sight for sore eyes. I don’t miss any detail when it comes to sliding through these parties un-noticed and thus, having plastered my hair with half a kilogram of Bryl-Cream and warmed up on 4 pints of John Smiths Best Bitter before sticking my comb into the right side of my right sock, I was ready to impress and there was no room for failure.
Well, to cut a long story short so as not to bore anyone or to sound as though I’m bragging; when I woke up under the bar the next morning with half a pint of Stroh Rum still in my glass, and realized that none of my peers had managed to display the physical stamina, sense of humour, or problem solving technique and abilities that I had been able to show the night before, I was immediately overcome by a sense of de j’a vous and reminded of the great compassion and forgiveness shown by Robert Mugabe to one of his bodyguards back in the eighties. That time he shot a hole in the Presidential section of the fuselage, from the inside of the State Bae146, whilst searching for stowaways, terrorists, damaged components and other undesirable elements. I was immediately overcome by an aura of well-being, pity on my colleagues who’s fortune had clearly not been as good as mine, and a dull aching in the back of my head, probably caused by too much caffeine in that Cola I’d mixed with my Rum, Brandy and Vodka the night before. I made a mental note never to use that stuff again.
Anyway, as they say in the classics (get it?), the rest is all history and a true indication of the fact that it takes more than just perfectly honed flying skill and fingertip-technique to succeed at these most intimidating selections, although these talents do help. Finesse, pose, great looks and subtle confidence play a major role as well, as you can tell from my story. You’ll remember from the 1985 invasion of Cuito Cuanavale, when the South African Defence Force left all their bullets at home, that LUCK can and most probably will be the deciding factor at the end of the day.
Regards
126.9 :}
Disclaimer: Names of people, places and even events may have been altered, modified or made up in order to cover up the truth, protect innocent individuals and ensure that a good story is not ruined by the facts.
As some of you know and others do not; I've spent the past four weeks at home preparing myself for a huge aviation event. Although most folk weren't even aware of the fact that this particular show was about to transpire, it had become my obsession, and thus most of my day's hours over this period, have disappeared into hundreds of pages of text and multiple viewings of aviation video material. Following my education in the South Pacific Ocean over December, Christmas, New Year and January, I, and a Bedford-load of other pilots, were invited to the Coconut Airways pre-selection screening and interview early in February. Since I'd last applied to Coconut more than a year ago, I'd long given up hope of ever hearing from them and so was caught totally unawares on the day. Also, going straight from My Tarawa Adventures into the selection board on a bitterly cold and wet London afternoon, was clearly not the ideal way to get invited back. And that of course is primarily the goal: a second invitation
Anyway, after I'd told the selection panel that I "...hadn't done a stitch of work in preparation..." for that particular day's outing and, after they'd asked "...what makes you think we'll be inviting you back?", I traveled home proud of the fact that at least I'd received an initial interview at Coconut Airways, which is more than any of those second-rate sky-jockeys at Emirates and SAA can say. What's more, it was the middle of winter and my arse was itching (get it?) to go home.
You can imagine my surprise a few days later when, I was sat in front of the computer with my third bottle of Germany's best pils already in my gut, contemplating the great trek down three storeys of stairs to fetch a fourth, and my inbox is suddenly lit up by the arrival of the Coconut Airways email inviting me back for the technical interview and simulator assessment and check ride. ****** me. They'd stuffed up and I was not going to be the one to let the cat out of the bag. And thus started my four weeks of research, study and clearing out of the old mind cobwebs.
Since none of these factors are in question, taking into account my natural humility and considering that I don't have all day, I'm not going to get into great detail here regarding my mental agility, intellectual prowess or superior aviation background and expertise. Suffice it to say that I was suitably prepared for this encounter and more confident than the African National Congress was when they won the South African elections, having falsified over 66% of the electoratal votes in 1994. I was a steamroller with brake failure on Signal Hill! A heifer on the streets of Pamplona with a greasy, young Spaniard in my sights! A Soutie (Pom for you foreigners) on the foothills of Ladysmith with 10,000 Zulus after my arse! An Aussie at the moment of realisation in The Blue Oyster Bar! I think you get the picture...?
To cut a long story short (I'm a man of very few words as you know), after I'd batted the technical quiz into the stands with the skill and precision of the South African Minister of Transport that time he had to talk his way out of a life sentence when he was caught with his hand in the till and the receipts in his pocket for the ATPL's (pilot licenses; for you earthbound few) that he'd sold, it was off to the flight simulator for me. Now, as those of you that have had the honour of accompanying me on the flight-deck will know; and I say this tongue-in-cheek since it is usually you singing my praises and not me blowing my own trumpet, I was born with a yoke in my hands, rudder pedals at my size tens and a fistful of Pratt and Whitney. Look, keeping the blue side on top and the green side on the bottom, is only the beginning, because stroking that beast with the skill of Richard Gere in American Gigolo back in the early eighties is where I come into my own.
As you can imagine, shortly after rotation that bronco started bucking and doing it's best to chuck yours truly off and ultimately out of the game. Now (as you know) I'm not one to brag, but when old Tonto gets agro, 126.9 starts having fun. Those boys observing were in awe and learned respect. No sooner had the first fire-bell rang when I pumped off a shot of that insecticide that'll kill a JT9D-7R4G2 (engine; moron) in 10 seconds flat. Passing acceleration altitude I started reigning her in and getting her back where she belonged. Trying to maintain altitude to within 500 feet either side was reminiscent of my wild and misspent youth, when I was wrestling anacondas in South America, fighting alligators in Florida and pissing on puff adders in Africa! In all honesty and sincerity it is at times like those that I'm overcome by sensations of tingling, numbness and a slight stirring in my loins. Getting her under control in swift and decisive action I decided to turn her around and get her back to the paddock. I wrestled her over to my left, flipped her inverted and kicked her in the belly till she came upright again and leveled off at 3000 feet, give or take a bit. I could see the looks of amazement and admiration in the faces of my inspectors as they rearranged their seatbelts and wiped the saliva from their eyebrows. Now, fighting her over further to my left and taking a descent from radar control simultaneously, I pointed her at that localizer with the precision and talent of Thabo Mbeke back-pedaling, when he'd told the world AIDS conference in Durban that time that the white man had to stop making up these diseases who's aim it was to stop the black man from having sex. Next, I nudged her nose down onto the glideslope so subtly, that it reminded me of that time in 1987 when Jan Spies told a tale on "Spies en Plessis" about the policeman in the Karoo who arrested the young kitchen girl down at the Royal Hotel, but felt so sorry for her that he decided to let her stay at his house and share his nice warm bed, rather than spend a night in the cold cell down at the Blue Lantern Inn.
Touchdown, as usual, was a graceful affair and as we slithered to a halt I could sense the atmosphere in that simulator was a mix of fear, respect and relief. Being accustomed to such reactions from my peers, colleagues and various strangers, one might well be inclined to shrug it off and pay it no regard. Since I’m an over-sensitive individual who considers others ahead of myself, I offered my assessment team autographed photos of myself as well as free, signed copies of my autobiography “Adventures in the Good Life of the African Ace”, (available NOW at a book store or CNA near you) which they at first were too humbled to accept. Not quite knowing how these mere mortals were feeling, I insisted that they not only accept the gifts but also offered to take the check ride a second time, just incase they felt that they’d missed something.
Since this is a short story and accepting my good intentions in telling it so that you too may experience the success, which I have had, at your next selection board, I feel it necessary to indulge a little into the intricacies of the company sponsored social events which inevitably are a part of the programme, whether you like it or not. Actually, it reminded me of that time back in the 1979 when Michael De Morgan was reading the eight o’clock news on SABC 1, and the camera panned out from him only to reveal, that since television news readers aren’t paid a great deal of money, he could not afford the bottom part of his work suit. Being a man of pride however he was not to be embarrassed or flustered by this fact, and thus donned a classy pair of Jockey boxer shorts which he’d bought from Mohamedy’s in Durban, and which had been signed by Cat Stevens himself, and had thus not been washed since the Autumn of 1971. You can therefore understand how I must have felt later that evening at the company sponsored social event, when I took it upon myself to display to the selection panel and my peers, my willingness to fit in, and not to stick out from the crowd or show anybody up, by wearing a flash suit. No sir, not me: I rocked up in my best safari suit which I’d bought second-hand down at the Durban Harbour Flea Market, my Port Natal High School rugby socks and my brand new pair of Doc Maartens loafers. I was a sight for sore eyes. I don’t miss any detail when it comes to sliding through these parties un-noticed and thus, having plastered my hair with half a kilogram of Bryl-Cream and warmed up on 4 pints of John Smiths Best Bitter before sticking my comb into the right side of my right sock, I was ready to impress and there was no room for failure.
Well, to cut a long story short so as not to bore anyone or to sound as though I’m bragging; when I woke up under the bar the next morning with half a pint of Stroh Rum still in my glass, and realized that none of my peers had managed to display the physical stamina, sense of humour, or problem solving technique and abilities that I had been able to show the night before, I was immediately overcome by a sense of de j’a vous and reminded of the great compassion and forgiveness shown by Robert Mugabe to one of his bodyguards back in the eighties. That time he shot a hole in the Presidential section of the fuselage, from the inside of the State Bae146, whilst searching for stowaways, terrorists, damaged components and other undesirable elements. I was immediately overcome by an aura of well-being, pity on my colleagues who’s fortune had clearly not been as good as mine, and a dull aching in the back of my head, probably caused by too much caffeine in that Cola I’d mixed with my Rum, Brandy and Vodka the night before. I made a mental note never to use that stuff again.
Anyway, as they say in the classics (get it?), the rest is all history and a true indication of the fact that it takes more than just perfectly honed flying skill and fingertip-technique to succeed at these most intimidating selections, although these talents do help. Finesse, pose, great looks and subtle confidence play a major role as well, as you can tell from my story. You’ll remember from the 1985 invasion of Cuito Cuanavale, when the South African Defence Force left all their bullets at home, that LUCK can and most probably will be the deciding factor at the end of the day.
Regards
126.9 :}
Disclaimer: Names of people, places and even events may have been altered, modified or made up in order to cover up the truth, protect innocent individuals and ensure that a good story is not ruined by the facts.