Phil Perry

A guy wants a divorce. He tells the judge,"I just can't take it anymore. Every night she's out until way after midnight, just going from bar to bar." Judge asks, "What's she doing?" The guy answers, "Looking for me."

The board members are Appointed, from Quasi autonomous Non governmental Authorities ( QANGOS ) these 'Committees' of which there are around 4,500. . . ALL persons appointed have to be graduates of 'Common Purpose' courses. As are members of the Judiciary, senior civil servants including the Police and Military. Qango members have a really good sinecure, and many of them serve on lots of different committees, whether they appear to have any skills in whatever subject or not. They are all Government funded. The ONLY one of these Qangos which is any good at all, is the Civil Aviation Authority. This has always been populated and led by Pilots, and other aviation associated people who have an understanding of the subject. We seriously need a bonfire of the rest.

Not right wing news Marty, but news which is simply reported sans the incredibly and nowadays Obvious bias, all One way. Always pushing the Socialist mantra. There are NO 'Privately Owned' / Independent News outlets in the UK which have a National, nor even Regional broadcasting licence. Just a few bloggers and commentators which are available online only. Every single one which either disputes the narrative or tries to present news without a certain narrative lean, or reports news which the big four completely omit, is shouted down as the far right lunatic fringe. The definition of 'Far Right' in this country is anything marginally starboard of Karl Marx. Anyone with an opposing view is a nazi. I feel that this will probably not end well.

2 drunk mexicans in a bar, arguing, so they turn around and ask the gringo. "hey...gringo......wass one plus one?" the gringo answers "two" one mexican takes out his pistol and shoots him,. . . the shocked barmen asks him why he did that . . . "That gringo. . . . .he knew too much"

This could be a possible ( By no means exhaustive) reason why there are no conservative opinions nor narrative ever countenanced on our Wonderful politically 'IMPARTIAL' ( By Law of Public Charter ) State funded National broadcaster,. . . . the BBC. . . For those Australians who may not know this, The Labour Party is 'The Left' Anything else is regarded as 'Hard Right' and not worth airtime nor any consideratoin at all. Chairman - Gavin Davies - later a labour advisor. Chairman - Sir Micheal Lyons - previously a labour council chief. Ex Director General - John Birt - Labour advisor. Ex Director General - Greg Dyke - Labour donor and candidate. Caroline Thompson - previously Roy Jenkin's aide ( Labour Leader ). Head of Political research - Bill Rush - Labour spin doctor. Deputy head of PR - Catherine Rimmer - Labour spin doctor. Director of Strategy - Ed Richards - Labour spin doctor. Head of Radio - James Parnell - Labour Minister. Head of Northern Ireland News - Tom Kelly - Labour Spin doctor. Scottish News editor - Tim Luckhurst - Labour Spin doctor. Political News editor - Joy Luckhurst - Labour Spin doctor. Political Editor - Andrew Marr - Student labour organiser. Home News Editor - Celia Barlow - Labour MP. Head of European Affairs - Chris Bryant - Labour MP. Newsnight producer - Phil Woolas - Labour MP. Foreign Correspondent - Martin Sixsmith - Labour Spin doctor. Current affairs reporter - Ben Bradshaw - Labour minister. Current affairs reporter - Lance Price - Labour Spin doctor. Question time editor - Gill Penlington - Labour researcher. Question time Chairman / Presenter Davd Dimbleby. Lifetime Labour proponent and Journalist. ( Does some really Nice Doccoes about sailing around the UK coast though ) Jon Sopel Chief American correspondent news editor and Labour supporting Journalist. SKY News - staff interchangeable with BBC, Parrots all news stories. Channel Four ( Also known as Caliphate Four for their support of Anything to do with support of Islam ) Main Man, Jon Snow. . .although hos SON Dan Snow, does lots of historical Doccoes about what bastards the English were to everyone else in the world, and our history in the slave trade, conveniently forgetting that the British ended it by force. . the Arabs are nad were the worst for this nad still are to this day. . .not forgetting the Africans themselves, selling their own poor people into slavery etc. Amazing what you can do when you bend history . ITV - Staff interchangeable with BBC ad SKY ad CH4 . . insignificant BUT THEIR WEATHER GUY Liam Dutton, is a proper, Qualified Weather and Climate Guru. . .and rarely gets it wrong. Now,. . .can someone outside of the box give me an opinion on this ?. . .how are we supposed to receive politically neutral news and perhaps sensible opinion, when the dice is thus 'Slightly' politically weighted ? ? Anyone ? ? ? One might cynically suggest that,. . If Gough Whitlam had a similar support base from the ABC and every single other commercial media Channel with a broadcasting licence in the Country. . .that he'd have died in office ( Is he still alive ?. . I don't know ) The Sheeple in general, tend to believe the message if EVERY TV and Radio channel tells them to do this, as it's only right and proper . . . . Of course,.this also acts as a continual 'Drip Drip' brainwashing effect. As my maternal Grandma used to regularly state, "Well if it wasn't true, it wouldn't be in the papers would it ? "

Bird Photographer of the Year winner. Attention to detail category bronze award, and People’s choice award winner Atlantic puffin Mario Suarez Porras, Spain. Lovely Pic. Expertly framed. . . [ATTACH]49530._xfImport[/ATTACH]

Bloke is driving over Sydney Harbour Bridge when he sees his girlfriend at the side ready to jump.. . . Screeches to a halt and runs over shouting "Babe. . ., what are you doing?" "I've just found out I'm pregnant and I'm going to end it all" "Jeez, mate, not only a good lay but a good sport as well"

Another essay from Blown Periphery, which I thought you may like to read. First World War Myths Lies and Distortions PART 1 - KANGAROO COURTS 19th August 2018. What seems such a long time ago, my dear long-suffering wife decided that she wanted to be a teacher. She had lived in many places, often not through choice, served her country in the Armed Forces, brought up two children and supported a husband through thick and thin. I firmly believe that she would have made a great teacher and she commenced studying for a humanities degree and became a classroom assistant to begin the process. We had inherited through my grandfather, a Princess Mary 1914 Christmas Tin, sadly empty. As the First World War was being studied in the class, she decided to take it in and give the children a little talk on its background, which she thought went down rather well. But she was unhappy about some of the teaching points regarding the Great War. The teacher was good, he could captivate the class and importantly, maintain control. However, she had some concerns about accuracy of the information being taught and voiced her concerns to me. “Mr ______ told the kids that our soldiers were in the trenches for years without hope, until they were killed, badly wounded or until the war ended. That doesn’t seem likely to me.” “It isn’t. I think it’s a bit OOT, but kids believe it. I thought they were regularly rotated back to the support trenches and then out of the front line for training, issue of new kit and R&R. The battalions were rotated, except during a major attack or offensive.” “I mentioned it to him after the lesson, but he was quite adamant. He said: “That’s why so many of the soldiers went mad or tried to run away. That’s why thousands were shot after kangaroo courts.” I know some soldiers were shot for desertion, but I didn’t think it was thousands.” This started me thinking about just how far the metastasis of the Progressive Left have infested the institutions. We have to push back against this insidious disinformation and do our ancestors who fought in the First World War justice, by dissecting and demolishing these deliberate lies that have become accepted truth. Why? This will be discussed in a subsequent piece. Military Law Warfare requires men and sometimes women, to engage in activities that fly in the face of common sense or natural instinct. A normal human reaction when faced with the likelihood of death or serious injury is to avoid it. But an army that avoided danger would be absolutely useless and would never win a firefight, let alone a battle. There would be no point in having Armed Forces, except to make state visits, royal weddings and Wimbledon look nice, and looking at some of the bile-inducing recruitment adverts, I fear that is the route we are taking. Military personnel are not brainwashed, they are conditioned to act in accordance with the wishes of their superiors and peers, for a common goal. Military law is not civil law and although some comparisons can be made, many cannot. It forms the underpinning principles of ensuring that military personnel will do their jobs in all circumstances. It ensures that men will stand, fight and support each other and it is what makes for a disciplined army rather than an armed rabble. Unlike some other countries, British military personnel are subject to civil as well as military law. Lesser offences such as common assault against fellow servicemen are tried under military law for convenience. The Army Act also makes it possible to try Servicemen for crimes committed in a foreign country, much to the delight of parasites such as Mr Phil Shiner. Offences tried and prosecuted under the Army Act will carry a much heavier sentence than those under civil law. Falling asleep as a night watchman may result in dismissal. Falling asleep as a sentry was until recently, punishable by death. Interestingly, British Service personnel could not be tried for war crimes if they were acting upon orders received from a senior officer. Whether the order was lawful or not was up to the officer who issued it and their superiors. This was deleted from the manual in 1944, to allow the prosecution of German and Japanese combatants in the post-WW2 war crimes trials. Civil law is adversarial, and the duty of the court is to hear the prosecution and defence cases and decide which case stands. Whereas military law descends from Roman law and the process is inquisitorial, the duty of the court to discover what actually happened. There has been a recent change in the Court Martial system, to bring the process more in line with civil law. In the period prior to these changes, the person trying the case was a soldier and therefore understood the circumstances under which an offence was committed. For simplicity I’ll use the term “Army” although the principles apply to Navy and Air Force Law. Modern critics say this means the Army is the judge and jury in its own case, but only soldiers understand the significance of certain acts or omission of an act. To hand this function over to civilian courts would not only be time consuming, but would undermine the process of military law which is to deal with a case swiftly and maintain good order and discipline. As part of the recruit training process, all service personnel are introduced to military law and learn the salient points in their first few weeks. Additionally, while I can’t be certain with the Army and Navy, the RAF’s Station Standing Orders and Station Routine Orders regularly outline prevalent offences and the penalties for having committed them. I once lost two-weeks’ pay for sneaking out of a WRAF block one morning, for the sins of being out of bounds, improper use of a fire escape and getting caught. In 1914 the powers of commanding officers were very limited and they could only hear relatively minor offences such as drunkenness or absence from duty. A commanding officer usually delegated powers to his company commanders and punishments were usually stoppage of pay, confinement to barracks. The soldier had the right not to take his officer’s punishment and elect for trial by court martial. Most took the punishment. As the war dragged on, the powers of commanding officers were increased to allow a CO to award a punishment of up to 28 days detention or field punishment up to the rank of lance-corporal. For more serious offences there were four levels of court martial, the lowest a Regimental Court Martial, a District, a General and a Field Court Martial. The president of the Regimental Court Martial had to be a major or above and consist of three officers, all having served a minimum of three years. A General Court Martial had to consist of nine officers, the president being a lieutenant-colonel or above and had the powers to award the death penalty if at least two-thirds agreed. This worked well in peacetime, but on active service it was often impossible to assemble nine officers, hence the requirement for a Field Court Martial, only convened in war on active service. It consisted of three officers, all whom must have served at least a year in field duties, the president a lieutenant-colonel and in the case of the death penalty all had to agree. Nobody involved with bringing the case could sit in the court and all members swore an oath on the bible. There was no appeal, but sentences had to be approved in the case of a death sentence by the head of the British Expeditionary Forces. Very serious offences such as murder of a civilian were advised by a civilian judge. This post was known as the Judge Advocate. Military law was kept simple and as long as the strict guidelines on procedure and evidence were adhered to, a soldier should have a fair and honest trial. If they weren’t, the approving officer would dismiss the case. The accused was asked if he understood the case being brought against him and if he objected to any members of the court, such as a run-in with an officer in the past. He had the right to call any person in support of his case, providing they were available and ask for any officer not involved with the case to defend him. After the prosecution made its case, the defence made theirs, calling any witnesses. Then the case was summed up and the defending officer had the last word. The court adjourned for a decision and if not guilty was announced, that was the end of the matter. If guilty, the previous record was read out and any pleas for mitigation. There followed a second adjournment, after which the sentence was read out. Available to a presiding officer was the suspension of a sentence, something that wouldn’t be available in a civilian court for many years. The critics of military law cite it brutal and cruel, where young men were hauled in front of hastily arranged courts and robbed of their lives. Much of the criticism is from people who do not and do not wish to understand the imperatives of military life, some are pacifists and most are against the death penalty in any form. Some are politicians who recognise damned well a bandwagon when it rattles past, an ideal opportunity for some virtue signalling. Some think Blackadder Goes Forth is a documentary. Between 4th August 1914 and the 11th November 1918 there were 286,185 Court Martials in all theatres of the British and Indian Armies. 2,229 Officers were tried in the same period. Eighty-nine per-cent recorded a guilty verdict (seventy-five for officers). There were 123,383 Field Court Martials and the most prevalent offences were as follows: Absence without leave 23% Drunkenness 21% Violence, insubordination and disobedience 18% Desertion 5% Ill treatment of civilians 1% Cowardice 0.3% The death penalty was served in 3,080 cases and the number actually carried out was 346 in all theatres. The vast majority were reduced to penal servitude, field punishments or suspended. The definition of cowardice is very subjective and therefore very difficult to prove. Only the most blatant examples of cowardice appeared before a Court Martial. Abandoning a post or desertion was more clear-cut, so the majority of death sentences were carried out for these offences, where a credible defence is more unlikely. In these cases a soldier had made a conscious effort to abandon his post, or refuse to carry out a duty. The death penalty was never carried out on an Australian soldier, despite the award of the death sentence in 113 cases. The men actually executed were found guilty of the following offences: Mutiny 3 Cowardice 18 Desertion 266 Murder 37 Violence against a superior 6 Disobeying a lawful command 5 Sleeping at post 2 Leaving a post without authority 7 Casting away arms 2 So as we can see, apart from the subjective charge of cowardice, a soldier is at his post awake or is nor. He has either struck his superior or he has not. He has committed murder or mutiny or he has not. Thousands of soldiers were not dragged in front of Kangaroo courts and summarily executed and this excepted wisdom is a monstrous lie. We should refute it for the sake of the hundreds of thousands of men who lie buried in neat rows in Picardy and elsewhere around the world. They did their duty. Corrigan, G. (2003). Mud, Blood and Popycock. London: Cassell. Courts-martial Figures for Officer Ranks 1914-1919Type4/8 – 30/9/141/10/14 – 30/9/151/10/15 – 30/9/161/10/16 – 30/9/171/10/17 – 30/9/181/10/18 – 30/9/19GCM Home186356435814599GCM Abroad468478735839842FGCM Abroad1171558141159 Home courts-martials for Other Ranks 1914-1919Type4/8 – 30/9/141/10/14 – 30/9/151/10/15 – 30/9/161/10/16 – 30/9/171/10/17 – 30/9/181/10/18 – 30/9/19GCM Home31214315863149FGCM Ireland33279––––DCM Home62919,34027,05332,69232,39619,037 Overseas courts-martials for Other Ranks 1914-1919Type4/8 – 30/9/141/10/14 – 30/9/151/10/15 – 30/9/161/10/16 – 30/9/171/10/17 – 30/9/181/10/18 – 30/9/19GCM Abroad–22632122130FGCM Abroad5214,74330,29532,83041,66830,367DCM Abroad908777211,0581,284820

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A Copt, a Serb, an Armenian, an Israeli, a Burmese, a Biafran and a Congolese walked into a bar. They had a useful chat.

A caller on the phone today tried to sell me a coffin. I said "That's the last thing I need. . . "

Still not made up with the neighbour I notice. . . . . [ATTACH]49528._xfImport[/ATTACH]

No Worries Mate. . . Balanced in the evening with a huge 'T' bone and plenny green veg innit ?

[ATTACH]49527._xfImport[/ATTACH] AND. . . .if attacked by a mob of Jugglers. . . . Go for the Balls.. . .?

Luvly Lunch by the River today. . . .( Just responded to a Notification of a FeckBook post from Big Daughter,. . .and, as everybody seems to delight in posting pictures of what they had for munchies,. . who am I to argue. . . [ATTACH]49526._xfImport[/ATTACH] The Chips were a bit wank and undercooked by HEY. . .it was a FREE lunch. . .! Not only that,. . the Jalapeno Chicken and Bacon Goujons in light Batter were heavenly. . . .but the 'Beer' was a crime against Humanity. . .

I have to admit that the following Police report from San Diego very nearly caused me to spit my coffee all over the laptop ( again ) It really tickled my funnybone and No Bloody mistake cobbers. . . . [ATTACH]49525._xfImport[/ATTACH]

My Sincere condolences OK. On the Bright side,. . had it not been for that fortuitous Club Meeting . . . . . .

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My mate Keith's Brother in law won a good wedge in a Lottery syndicate a few months ago, and was pleasantly surprised when he and his Wife were 'gifted' a nice wedge, with the caveat that he HAD to spend some of it on a decent vacation. ( The bugger never goes anywhere much. . .) He decided to hire an RV and drive around the USA for a couple of months. On one particuar part of the tour ( Which He and Missis were enjoying immensely ) they happened upon New Hampshire. . . .and sent me a few emails about the place. He told me, prior departure; that he was somewhat concerned about crime, and the risk of being mugged. . .from things that he had read about the States. . . in my own inimicable way, I just told him to call every Male person he ever met SIR,. . .and every copper 'Officer'. . .and to keep his hands on the steering wheel and don't suddenly reach into the glove box for your licence and registration documents if you get pulled by a Highway Cop. . .. Like my DAD did a few years ago, and nearly got himself shot. . .( ! ) He sent me the following pics of a hardware store, which he called into to buy a fuse for the cigarette lighter circuit in his hired Dodge RV. It was after 5 PM and the store was closed and locked. These are the pictures of it, in a town called Wakefield, in New Hampshire. [ATTACH]49500._xfImport[/ATTACH] [ATTACH]49501._xfImport[/ATTACH] He was Gobsmacked that all this merchandise was left outside all night on a main highway through the town. . . . He was later told that there was 'no crime' around here.

All connected and most informative Willi.

CLUE - Whydya think I gave up Motorsickling ?

I hope that you don't mind the lack of paragraphs. . .I'm too tired to separate them. . . . War Crimes Part Thirty Three – Edge, Stepping Out Into the Cold On an evening in October 1998, a C130 Hercules of RAF No 47 Squadron, Special Forces Flight, took off from RAF Leuchars, north of St Andrews in Fife. To the residents on Meteor Avenue, behind their triple glazing, the passing Hercules was a drone, barely heard above BBC Scotland News. Their homes would be shaken much later, when a COMAO of four Tornado GR4s and four Tornado F3s would blast off and track through the valleys of Scotland, in an attempt to attack the naval task force located off the Mull of Kintyre. The Falcons of Cobham Aviation Services were already airborne, weaving their deceptive electronic webs, confusing and trying to blind the radars of the task force’s ships. In the noisy and cavernous rear of the C130 was an air dispatcher from the Joint Air Transport Establishment, an RAF Loadmaster, two RAF Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) and sixteen members of Nos 22 and 23® SAS. As soon as the Hercules turned south after the climb out, the sixteen SAS and two PJIs went onto oxygen from the black cylinders strapped to the seating stanchions between them. They were breathing pure oxygen to purge their body systems of nitrogen to prevent decompression sickness. Tonight they would be jumping from over 28,000 feet and would have to change over to their integral oxygen supply prior to the jump. This was the final, operational jump for the men, all men, no women, male privilege, of the High Altitude Exit, Low Opening (HALO), and freefall, covert insertion parachute course. Although they were part of a NATO exercise, for the parachutists this was the culmination of a long and vigorous course. They were still under evaluation, which was why the RAF PJIs were jumping with them. The lighting in the rear of the Hercules was dimmed. Some tried to sleep, some stared vacantly at some meaningless inanimate object and tried to concentrate on breathing slowly to avoid hyperventilation. Edge was reading with a small torch: We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families, not exactly a rip-roaring, light hearted romp, but a sobering insight into the barbarism of mankind. It had been on the suggested reading list for his intake and Edge was catching up with it. It was very hard going, because it reminded him too much of Bosnia. He felt the aircraft bank gently to starboard as it tracked south of the Yorkshire Moors. He felt hot, even though the air dispatcher and loadmaster’s breaths were misting in front of their faces. The cabin temperature had been deliberately kept low to avoid thermal shock as they left the aircraft. He was wearing long, silk underwear tops and bottoms next to his skin, an expensive purchase from a skiing equipment shop. Silk inner socks and Marino wool outers. The thick-soled boots were Haix’s finest (Edge’s personal favourites). Silk inner flying gloves and outer Arc’teryx Sabre skiing gloves. He had three layers under the radar absorbent smock, including Gore-Tex and two under his trousers. The bergen was between his knees with a radar absorbent cover, an M16 was strapped to his left hand side, attached to the parachute harness, muzzle pointing down. The rear sling swivel was tied with paracord to the left riser of his chest rig with a carabiner. The reserve chute, oxygen bottle, altimeter and rate of fall gauges were attached to the main harness on his chest. He had a GPS indicator on his left wrist. Edge was wearing a Kevlar ballistic helmet and goggles, with oxygen mask connected to the small oxygen bottle under the reserve chute. He was dreading the ecstasy of fumbling, as they donned and checked their kit prior to the jump. The Hercules banked again about twenty-five minutes later and was heading north towards the Isle of Man. Edge watched the loadie go up to the flight deck and knew that soon it would be Show Time. He stowed the book and torch in a sealable polythene bag in one of his bergen’s side pockets. What seemed like an eternity later, the loadie came back down from the flight deck he and the air dispatcher went onto their own, portable oxygen supply. The PJI’s started to get them ready, although unlike their SAS trainees, they were unencumbered by bergens and weapons. Edge stood up and turned his bergen upside down, stepped in front of it and put his legs through the shoulder straps. His buddy-buddy helped him haul it up and attach the heavy rucksack behind his knees to his parachute harness, with two quick-release carabiners and a length of webbing strapping. Once his parachute had opened (God willing), Edge would release the bergen to drop ten feet below on its webbing strap. It would hit the ground first and slow his descent. He had taped the cleats of his boots with green bodge tape to prevent them tangling with the straps as it dropped away. The process was repeated with his buddy and now none of them could sit back down. The mutual check of equipment lasted a long time. Their lives depended on getting it right. Edge’s final, essential piece of life support equipment was tucked in his smock’s inner pocket. A small, well-loved and rather grubby koala bear, called Skippy, that his mother had given him when he was five. The PJIs went round and double-checked the thoroughness of the buddy-buddy system. If anything was found, the buddy got a cuff on his helmet for missing it. The loadmaster told the PJIs that the aircraft was getting ready to depressurise and the eighteen jumpers went onto their integral oxygen supply. This was the difficult time. Any faults with the oxygen and the parachutists would not be allowed to jump. By the time faults were sorted, the parachutist would have breathed in normal air. Even a brief few breaths would in theory be enough to induce decompression sickness. Edge held his breath and felt the puffs of oxygen from the mask against his eye. He clipped the mask on and pulled down his goggles, giving one last wink to his buddy, (in a totally manly and un-ghay way). Up on the flight deck the crew were on their oxygen supplies and the Hercules depressurised. The loadie came round and showed all the parachutists a white board. On it was written the wind speed and direction at their current altitude, at 10,000 feet and ground level. The cloud base and height was annotated along with the zero degree isotherm, which was 8,000 feet. Edge groaned inwardly, they would be freefalling through freezing cloud. The red lights went on above the two para doors, although they would be exiting from the rear ramp. Edge was in the first stick of eight and they waddled towards the rear of the aircraft, laden with over 100lbs of kit. One of the PJIs was with them, to assess them for the final jump. All had luminous numbers on their helmets for identification. The two going out first lugged the “bundle,” a padded container carrying their specialist equipment. The bundle was fitted with a drogue chute to give it a degree of stability and allow it to drop at the same rate as the rest of the stick. These two would accompany it, keeping it stable and away from the other parachutists. Looking after the bundle was a shit job. The rear ramps went down and up with a whine of hydraulics and nine stepped onto it. Edge could see the lights of Ramsey far below through the clouds. The sun was still setting and the tops of the clouds were dusted with orange and pink. The horizon was a deep purple. The second stick formed up just off the ramp. They had a different landing zone and a different target and mission. The air dispatcher was right on the edge of the ramp, next to the bundle, his trousers and smock flapping in the slipstream. He was tethered to the aircraft with a long strop, facing in. The loadie gave the thumbs-up. “Stand by!” Edge was watching the lights above the para doors as they went green. “Go!” The bundle and its handmaidens were out first. Edge counted one-thousand-and-one and he leaped off the ramp, pitching top downwards, his legs coming up. He was inundated by the screaming of four turbo-jet engines and the gut-wrenching sensation of falling felt in his shoulders and abdomen. As he spun he saw the Hercules disappearing above away from him and got into the freefall starfish position. The freezing coldness was like lying naked on a fishmongers slab and his testicles disappeared to what felt like his throat. A boot swept past his face as another freefaller swung in too close. There were others above, one within touching distance and the bundle with its snaking drogue chute some way below. They seemed to stand out against the clouds like flies on a tablecloth. The much more manoeuvrable PJI, formatted facing him and raised his thumbs in question. Edge gave a thumbs-up in reply, but became conscious his breathing was too rapid and shallow. He slowed it down, concentrating on breathing from below his diaphragm. As his anxiety subsided, Edge became aware of just how beautiful the setting sun and the clouds were, still thousands of feet below him and he forgot how cold he was. He subconsciously recollected a poem: Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, –and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of –Wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air… Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark or even eagle flew — And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. He lurched into the slipstream of the “bundle,” which jolted him out of his spiritual reverie and Edge closed his legs slightly to reduce drag and back away from the disturbed air. Concentrate you arsehole! His altimeter registered 12,000 feet and the clouds seemed to be racing up to them. A long way to their north Edge fancied that he could see the tiny dots and vertical slipstreams of the second stick above them. He glanced at his GPS indicator on his wrist, which showed he was still over the sea, although the coastline was close, unseen below the clouds. Their forward momentum would take the stick to the coast around five kilometres southeast of Portpatrick. Then with the ram parachutes open, they could make the three or four kilometres to their designated drop zone. As the top of the clouds approached the stick moved apart to avoid collisions in the reduced visibility. Edge’s altimeter indicated 9,450 feet as he went into the cloying wetness of the stratus clouds. It felt colder and the lack of visibility was disconcerting. He prayed that his instruments wouldn’t ice up, as the first of the ice crystals formed on the material of his smock. At 4,500 feet he put his left hand on top of his helmet and the right hand grasped the D-ring of the parachute ripcord. At 4,000 feet he said a silent prayer and pulled firmly. There was a flapping from behind and something clouted the back of his helmet. There was a violent jerk, his legs swung forward and Edge stared up. The square canopy looked good, thank you, God. No riser lines over the top to blow the periphery. They had popped the chutes at 4,000 feet because at that height, the sound of the canopy opening was inaudible on the ground. Next he pulled the paracord attached to the pins to release his bergen. One of the straps caught on his foot, so Edge wriggled his boot and the heavy rucksack dropped away. He felt the jolt as it came to the end of the strop and it was now dangling ten feet below him. His GPS indicated he was tracking north and he pulled on the handle controlling the right risers of the chute, to make a turn to starboard. He came out of the clouds at 1,500 feet and it was nearly dark over the Scottish countryside. Edge went silently over what looked like a farm below and seemed to be coming down in a shallow valley, with woods following a burn to his north. The ground was coming up fast and Edge chose his landing site. The bergen hit the ground instantly slowing his descent. He flared the chute and hit the ground gently, immediately twisting under the shrouds to kill the canopy. Edge struggled out of the parachute harness and bundled everything together as neatly as possible. He hid the folded canopy, reserve and his helmet and oxygen kit deep in a hedge, marking the position according to GPS. At a later date it would be retrieved by support staff to save the long-suffering British taxpayers some money. Edge worked out his position and reckoned he was some 750 metres away from the rendezvous point, a copse just west of Stoneykirk. He shouldered his bergen, picked up the M16 rifle and set off at a gentle jog, being careful of the uneven ground. Some ten minutes later he was with the rest of his stick, holed up in the copse, under a gentle but annoying drizzle. Everyone was accounted for and there were no injuries. “We’ll need some help to bring in the bundle. It’s about a click and a half away, but we hid it first. The PJI gathered them together, “Right, any problems?” Heads were shaken in the darkness. “Number four, you looked like Korky the Cat. Arms out to the side please, and don’t be afraid to spread those legs. Nothing’s going to fall out. Well done you chaps on the bundle. All in all, an excellent jump, good exit and obviously good landings because you’re all here in one piece. Good all the way. Right, if you’ll excuse me, it’s back to Leuchars for tea and medals for me. You lot can crack on with being hooligans.” “How will they know where to find you?” “By the miracle of modern technology, also known as a mobile phone. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said and left them. * They were holed up in a wood known as Grenoch Square, about two kilometres from RAF West Freugh, their target and primary objective. The Blue forces had set up two forward operating bases for their helicopters and fixed wing air assets, one at RAF West Freugh, the other at Castle Kennedy. The Blue fixed wing aircraft were still on HMS Illustrious, but West Freugh was home to eight CH 53 Sea Stallion helicopters and Castle Kennedy, the objective of the other team, was operating RAF Puma and Chinook helicopters. Edge’s team were Orange Special Forces, tasked with destroying the CH 53s on the ground. Lieutenant Colquhoun tried not to feel despondent, but the news from his recon team wasn’t good. “It’s almost as though someone has tipped the bastards off. The airfield is crawling with patrols, if anything there’s more of them at night.” “What about coming in from the seaward side?” asked Colquhoun. “No chance, they’ve strung out motion sensors and they do investigate every contact. Some deer set them off last night and a patrol was out in a few minutes. They are bloody good.” “OK, it looks like it’s operation Certain Death, then.” “Not necessarily,” Edge observed, looking closely at the Lieutenant, “Boss, you’re a Jock aren’t you?” Hamish Gideon Colquhoun, Ninth Earl of Kilochewe stared at Edge as though he had just made an inappropriate comment about his mother. “Say something in Jockanese.” Reluctantly, Colquhoun complied. “Hmmm,” Edge observed, “What do you think, chaps?” A trooper called Mickie Keeble who was dangerously ginger even with his camouflage gave his verdict in a Devonian drawl, “Not too bad, Boss. But do you think you can do it a little less Doctor Finlay and a bit more Rab C Nesbit?” Colquhoun tried for another five or so minutes until: “I think he’s got it! By George, he’s got it!” * That lunchtime, a farmer near Lochans had his meal interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door. He opened it to two strange apparitions who were dressed in camouflage clothing, with blackened faces, heavily armed and festooned with camouflage hessian strips. The nearest one dragged off his woollen hat politely. “Good afternoon, sir. This may seem like a strange request, but please may we borrow a tractor and a trailer for a period not exceeding four hours.” “And some sheep, probably six will do, and some straw. Dirty ones, the dirtier the better,” Said the second stranger, “But not in that sense, if you see what I mean. We may have to borrow them for a bit longer, but none will come to any harm. Emotional or otherwise.” “Och aye?” replied the farmer, as this were an everyday occurrence around these parts, “And may I be as bold as to ask you why you wish me to provide you with a tractor, a trailer and some sheep, the dirtier the better?” “And straw, sir.” “And a Barbour Jacket or coat if you have one. We’re a bit, “obvious” dressed like this.” “Well, why?” “Sir, I regret that if we told you, we have to kill you,” he smiled to show he was joking. “I’d like to see you try, laddie, with those blank firing attachments on your fancy, American rifles.” * That afternoon a tractor pulling a trailer of bad-tempered ewes chugged up to the security checkpoint of RAF West Freugh and was waved to a halt by two American Combat Security Policemen. The gate was also covered by a machine gun in a concrete sangar. “Sir, this is a restricted area and I’m afraid you’ll have to turn round and go back.” Get lost, sonny. This is where I graze my sheep and this is where these girls will graze.” You can’t graze sheep on here. This is goddamned major military exercise/” The man driving the tractor looked pointedly across the security fencing to where sheep were contentedly grazing, “And how do you think those sheep got in? By teleporting?” “Shit!” exclaimed the Security Policeman, “Get that Limey liaison officer here. Let him sort it out.” The man on the tractor contentedly sucked on a pipe and waited until an MoD police van turned up at the main gate. The Mod Plod got out and officiously pulled on his cap. “What seems to be the problem?” “This farmer gentleman says he has the right to graze his sheep on the airfield.” The MoD policeman looked at the trailer that was covered with trampled sheep shit. “Baaaaa,” said an irritable looking ewe. “Technically, the local farmers do graze their sheep on the airfield. It keeps the grass short and saves the cost of mowing.” Jeeez,” said the American military policeman. “If we stop him, there will be ructions in the local community. They moan enough about the noise of the aircraft. I’ll escort him on and off and we’ll keep well clear of your helicopters.” The tractor followed the MoD Police van and the two American policemen looked at each other. “The last century? It’s more like going back to the Dark Ages.” The tractor pulled off the perry track and the driver started to unload the trailer. The ewes scampered off happily enough while the driver unloaded some of the straw. He paused as though tired and went to chat to the MoD Policeman, pointing at the helicopters in the distance. While the MoD Plod was distracted, four straw men lugging bergens slipped off the trailer and lay in the long grass, indistinguishable from the dry grass around them. The “farmer” finished unloading the straw and followed the MoD van off the base, waving cheerfully at the Americans as he chugged past the security checkpoint. * Edge followed Sergeant Pedlow, flanked by Mickie and another trooper towards the flight line. They went down and crawled the last few yards towards where a sentry and a dog patrolled around the first four CH 53s. Mickie raised the air rifle and aimed at the dog. Normally they would have used the silenced .22 “Hush Puppy” pistol to dispatch both the dog and the sentry, but this was an exercise. The tranquiliser dart hit the dog on its rump. The German Shepherd yelped and staggered. As the sentry bent down to see what was wrong with the dog, Edge and the other trooper bundled him onto the ground, jammed a rag in his mouth and cable tied his arms, knees and feet. They bundled the sentry into the grass and waited until the yelping dog fell over, before carrying it to join its handler. Edge bent down next to the sentry, who was mumbling indignantly behind his gag, “Right, if you promise to play the game and stay nice and quiet, I’ll get rid of the gag and untie your hands. Your pooch is fine. He’ll wake up in an hour. Do we have a deal?” The American sentry nodded and spat out the rag while Edge cut the cable tie on his hands. He gave him a bar of chocolate, “Now be good while we do our naughty stuff.” Each one of them took a helicopter, moving quickly in the darkness. They all placed a simulated explosive on each aircraft in exactly the same place, then ran thunder flashes with trip wires from helicopter to helicopter. Before they moved off, Edge jogged back to where the sentry was lying. “Everything all right?” “Guess so, you Limey bastard.” “Good man,” said Edge patting him on the shoulder, “Nice and quiet, remember.” The four of them cautiously moved around the back of the buildings to get to the second package of four aircraft, some four hundred metres away. Every few yards they paused and set up thunder flashes with tripwires on every doorway they thought would be appropriate. They almost ran into the second sentry, who was having a surreptitious cigarette at the side of a hangar. He dropped his rifle and opened his mouth to shout when Edge and the Sergeant hit him. This one fought and tried to shout, while his dog took chunks out of Mickie’s legs, as he fumbled for the air rifle. The dart hit the dog between the shoulder blades and it eventually keeled over, it’s jaws still locked around Mickie’s calf. “Do these fuckers have rabies?” he asked in a low voice as he prised the dog’s jaws open. “No, just Ebola.” There were no niceties with this sentry. He was gagged and trussed with bodge tape and dragged into the shadows with the snoring dog. They went to work with the dummy explosives and thunder flashes on the second batch of helicopters, same routine as the first. Once finished, they doubled back towards the control tower, their secondary objective and waited in the shadow of a fire and rescue truck for the fun to start. There was a flash and loud explosion from the direction of the main gate, followed by the rattle of automatic gunfire. Simultaneously gunfire came from the other end of the runway and a shchermuly flare spiralled into the night sky. Edge was first through the main door of the control tower and fired a short burst at someone running down the stairs, staring at them in shock. “You’re toast,” Edge told him. Sergeant Pedlow and Mickie cleared the ground floor with gunfire and thunder flashes. Up on the next floor, Edge tossed a thunder flash into a room and watched people scatter. The trooper cleared it with short bursts, then they were up to the top floor and the control gantry itself. Two thunder flashes went in followed by Edge and the trooper, their guns chattering, it was bedlam and the duty crew were on the floor, cowering in terror. “Thank you for your cooperation gentlemen, oh and lady as well. Evening, Ma’am. My apologies if you were startled.” As they withdrew north towards the perimeter wire and their escape route, the thunder flashes started to go off round the helicopters as the trip wires were triggered. They could hear random and un-coordinated return fire, then they hit the fence and turned right, tracking along it until they found the non-notional hole that had been cut in the fence. As they ran towards their rendezvous, Mickie started to drop behind. Edge and the other trooper helped to keep him going. “Fucking dog,” Mickie gasped and then in the distance they heard the helicopter. The other four were waiting for them on the landing point and the Sea King from 771 Naval Air Squadron flared and landed just north of the B7077. “Well done, chaps,” said an extremely chuffed Lieutenant Colquhoun, “Probably the most fun you can have with your clothes still on. I trust that none of that fine gentleman farmer’s sheep were harmed by your display of thuggery.” “They were all well when we left them Boss. Almost Wistful.” “Mine made me promise to write.” The Sea King headed north to HMS Gannet at Prestwick Airport and the bar was open. They poured in to get a drink and wait for the Hercules back to Leuchars, while Mickie had his legs cleaned and dressed and a tetanus booster. They were feeling full of themselves, pumped up with adrenaline and testosterone and Lieutenant Colquhoun threw open an invitation that he would later regret. He tapped on a glass to gain everyone’s attention and stood up solemnly. “Now as you are all aware, next week I am getting married and I would like to invite all of you to my evening reception.” “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” said Pedlow in his best Sergeant Wilson impression. “Of course it is. We can even invite the Crabs, whom I noticed pissed off when it got a bit wet and uncomfortable.” Later, Sergeant Pedlow asked Edge if he was going to Colquhoun’s wedding. “I’m not sure. What do you think?” “His future missus will kill him. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” “Then count me in,” said Edge with a grin. * Whatever had been left of the bride’s family had made themselves scarce, tut-tutting as they left, wondering what the hell she had let herself in for. He had always felt like an outsider looking in and had grown bored with the military rutting rituals. He spotted a girl who had been talking to Mickie and was unattached judging by his surveillance. She was dark, looked slightly vulnerable and she was fucking gorgeous. Edge moved in on the beautiful young woman who would become his wife and saviour. But first he said a sad little prayer, Please forgive me, Jozica, but I have to move on. May God keep you and you know that I’ll always love you.

This is the Brewery where I COULD have had a Pi$$ up,. . .but didn't., although the daytime Brewery Tour and evening feast was superb. . . . Welcome to Hook Norton Brewery | Award-winning real ales and bottled beers

MRI HeadScan yesterday revealed 'Moderate Concussion' I'm now banned from driving until I gets better. The specialist was Horrified that I'd driven a car 75 miles to get home. . .I felt, sort of OK at the time though. . . . . .got a lump the size of a Goose Egg on the right side of me bonce. . . .

My Youngest Brother has a single Cylinder 500cc Aprilia. Total heap of krap. I have recovered him and bike in my van more times than I can recall. THAT is a swine to start on the kicker too when cold !