It was the first day of summer and everyone in Toilet Avenue were out side cleaning their cars, cutting their lawns and all those other tasks that require a little warmth and a rare glimpse of the sun. I was there to visit Harvey’s Wall Banger, she’s the lady who travels the country checking recently built Persimmon Homes for cracks. Whereas the old railway wheel tappers, would strike the steam train wheels to see if they rang like a bell, proving there were no dangerous cracks developing, this lady was like the children of Filands, circling the estate seven times until the tarmac was laid, but with a variation of the theme, she would play Rock & Roll guitar riffs on her clarinet whilst circling new builds, and this would magically expose any cement work flaws, and also had the added bonus of bringing workmen tumbling out of the houses like dogs on the end of a boot, who would then follow her like the Pied Piper of Hankerton, right up to the site office door.
Well we were all sat on top of that site office with our Sun newspapers open at page three, downing large mugs of tea and eating curled up sandwiches, when suddenly from nowhere came a Hercules at extremely low level and by low, I mean low. If the painter had, had any paint on his brush, he could have stood up and put a white line down the belly of that Fat Albert that blew us all off the top of the portacabin. Luckily there was a great big pile of loft insulation beside it, and we all landed on that without any physical damage.
The commotion of all the car alarms going off and babies crying in places we never knew had any, brought Ollie running out of the house and into the street, to see if there had been another Horsefair Gas Explosion. Mrs Wall Banger stood up and dusted her self down, turned and picked up her clarinet from the top of a pile of bricks. Turning towards Ollie, she stepped forward, sweeping aside the dazed and confused builders, and marched purposefully in the direction of the Toilet Avenue Hangers.
Whose is this helicopter she shouted. Ollie spoke but nothing came out, it must have been the shock of the wing-tip vortices, still swirling building site dust into the air in the direction of the aircraft, that had just buzzed the usually peaceful estate. Ollie tried to speak again, this time with success and informed the angry looking Mrs Banger, that this tiny flying machine was his. Will this carry two people, she demanded with a doubtful look. Well yes of course it will, why do you ask. Take me after that mad Kamikaze pilot.
Ollie fired up the twin Olympus 593 powered home built helicopter. Then as he went through his pre flight checks, Banger strapped herself in. This is a bit bloody noisy for a helicopter, she shouted out to Ollie now squeezed in right beside her. Ollie turned to her and said, yea I pinched these engines out of a redundant Concorde.
After getting clearance from Lyneham Zone to lift, Ollie climbed out to 500 feet and lit the after burners. Banger nearly sh1t herself, as within 30 seconds they had shot over the Kemble overhead, and were rapidly gaining on the Herc.
What the hell are we supposed to do when we catch up with that thing, he hesitantly asked Mrs Banger. I don’t know she said, force him down at Fairford or something. I just want to give him a piece of my mind. Ollie opened the air brakes to scrub off some excess speed so as not to overshoot Ascot 4641. Banger could hear the air traffic controller in her headset, Victor Mike Charlie, she looked at Ollie quizzically, who are they, she said. Ollie explained it was ATC jargon and not real people’s names.
Oscar 593, you are clear to display at Fairford, blimey said Ollie they think I’m some sort of air show display. Well go for it man, bellowed Mrs Banger. Brize, this is Oscar 593, we’re currently at 500 feet over the Tesco Roundabout Cirencester, can you pass us over to Fairford Tower. Oscar 593, Squawk 4583. Bloody hell said Banger, they think you’re a damned parrot now, what is it with these flying people. No, said Ollie explaining again, they’re asking me to set the transponder to identify us on radar.
Hell, look the crafty Hercules is trying to land at South Cerney. Look, now he’s opening the back doors, god there’s a man in the back pushing out all the luggage. That’s not Luggage, said Ollie, they’re doing a low level dropping exercise on the grass airfield. Stop him then, talk to him on your microphone thingy and ask him to stop. What do you expect him to do, pull on his hand brake or something. At that moment the Herc banked hard to starboard and commenced a climb in the bearing of RAF Fairford. Follow him Ollie, follow him.
The Hercules was now lining up on the glide path to runway Zero Nine at Fairford, then it suddenly went into a steep-dive tactical-landing, straight down towards the tarmac, only pulling out at the last second just as Ollie pulled steeply up into a loop.
Banger could now see the Herc over her shoulder, as it seemed to be going backwards along the runway in the direction it had just arrived. See I told you he’s trying to get away from us. The helicopter was now in a vertical climb and Ollie did a 180 on his tail and proceeded to dive right back down. Mrs Banger started screaming, bloody hell we’re going to crash.
Oscar 593 with the notorious Mrs Wall Banger aboard, now too pulled up sharply and began travelling down the runway at about 50 foot above the tarmac in the direction of the Hercules.
Ollie hovered right in front of their cockpit almost touching the refuelling probe, Banger stared right into the flight deck at the C130’s pilot, Jesus, it’s a woman, the bloody drivers a woman. Now Ascot 4641’s pilot seemed to be waving back at them.
Heck, said Ollie and commenced a hasty 180 again, then climbed out rapidly into a hover at about 100 feet, just as the Herc roared below them and suddenly pulled up off the tarmac at what looked like a 45 degree angle. Mrs Banger suddenly became aware that there was a huge crowd below lining the runway and they all seemed to be waving, clapping and cheering.
When in Rome! cried out Ollie, and lit the afterburners. Banger felt herself squashed right back in the seat as they roared off in the direction of Brize Norton. Mrs Banger opened her eyes again slowly and then looked out to her left. My goodness we’ve two F16’s in echelon to Port. Hee hee hee, chuckled Ollie to himself, and pushed the throttles fully forward and into the emergency power zone. Before Mrs Banger could say ‘Bread over the Aisles’ they were setting down in the Tesco car park, and at that moment the two National Guard Fighting Falcons, barrel rolled over their heads.
Fancy doing a bit of shopping Mrs Banger, said Ollie.