Found the below on my back up hard drive this morning...A trip down memory lane....

[Friar]

Meeting The Backroom Boys - #2

It has been pretty quiet around the Chapel over the last few days, I think that a lot of the pilots must have gone home for Christmas, so as there were no souls in need of my spiritual guidance (I would guess that they were all probably letting the “spirit” guide them now anyway!) I decided to take another trip up to the airfield to see who was about.

I jumped into the Jeep I have on permanent loan from the Car Pool, the Priory’s work can keep me out pretty late and the taxi service around here is virtually non-existent. (Some of the Cab Companies won’t even come to some of the venues I find myself in! Doing the Priory’s work certainly can be tiring at times.) and headed off to the Airfield.

The short drive takes me across the town square, down to the junction with the main road. Looking over to my right I see that the “Downed Pilot” seems fairly quiet today also (note to self….good time to go and see Brenda me thinks). Anyway, I turn left on to the main road and head up to the airfield.

Driving around here is not the safest of occupations let me tell you. The American chaps will insist on driving on the wrong side of the road, the Brits are fine, we all understand which the correct side is. No matter how many times we discuss it with them, they still insist on doing it (now please forgive this impression but you will have to go with me a bit on this one, stand up straight, chest out, salute and bark out loud as if on the parade square,  “Our Way, The Right Way, The American Way”). I understand that they did try an experiment to drive on the correct side of the road once in one of the Southern States, although only doing large sixteen wheel trucks first was never going to work in my opinion.

Driving onto the Airfield, it all looks pretty quiet; I can see a few of the planes have been parked up for the Christmas period. I can see old Llocky working on my beat up FW190. I must pop over and say thank you. If it wasn’t for him I don’t think that I would get much flying time in at all.

I noticed a Jeep parked outside the Control Tower and a light on at the top, I guess ATC must be operational. I decided to drive over and go and see who was about.

I knocked on the Control Room door and went in. I have never ventured to this nerve centre of the airfield before. I was not sure what to expect, although I don’t think I could have ever been ready for the sight that befell me.

Sitting behind an arc of screens was a man dressed in a Hawaiian T-shirt (loud colours and jazzy patterns), a red and blue striped tank top (sleeveless pullover), tan coloured, knee length shorts, socks and sandals.  His hair was black and shiny (possibly gelled/greased/oiled), with a neat parting down the middle. “Hello” I called out, slightly apologetic, trying to get his attention. He looked up a bit startled. His attention was then immediately transferred back to a screen on his desk. “Victor One Nine Six Whisky Lima, please be advised that normal approach is required for runway Two Zero Zero”. Just at that point a Spitfire in the markings of the Royal Canadian Air Force came flashing past the Control Tower, wing tip smoke on and inverted. The Controller looked up briefly, uttered something about the Provinces and returned his focus to his desk.

“Hello” I tried again. This time he raised his head from his desk and looked over in my direction. I was greeted with a thick New York/Bronx accent, “Yea, Wadder ya want? I ain’t here for not for nuffin’ you know!” (Which, I believe went some way to explaining his dress sense) “How do you do” I replied, “Friar, Friar-one is my name”. He came back at me with “Oh it’s you” whilst nodding his head, as if all that had gone before, now made sense. “And you are?” I nervously enquired. He removed the gum that he had been incessantly chewing, stuck it under his desk, stood up and offered out his hand over the top of this screens, “Chuck, err, Charles Stickenoffski”. The formalities at this point, seem quite normal and were running true to protocol, except that Chuck was offering me his hand at approximately two feet to my right. This quite threw me I have to say. A feature of Chuck that had previously gone totally un-noticed by me then struck me like a dull blow with a frying pan to the head. I was standing next to the coat stand and Chuck was wearing the thickest pair of glasses I think that I had ever seen. I moved slightly to my right, took hold of his hand, which re-centred his focus on to me, shook it warmly and said “Pleased to meet you”. “Yea what ever”. He let go and sat back down at his desk. Put his hands behind his head, his feet up onto the desk, and promptly began to topple backwards, just saving himself in time. He stood up, pushed his arm out in front of him, shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his shirt collar, and looked around to make sure that it was only me and him in the room.

“So Friar, word on da street is you’re one of da good guys and can be trusted, is dat true?” “Yes, I can be trusted” I replied, (secretly thinking that I may just about to be given some more material for my next publication) “Is there something I can help you with?.” “Yea, first off, call me Fetch, it’s what da bro’ from the hood’ call me”. “Fetch?” I asked. “Yea Chuck Stick….?” “Oh…..” I paused, then got the joke, “Right, Chuck Stick, I see, very good” and did a very silly mime of throwing a stick. Chuck looked at me as though that was not the first time that he had seen that done. I coughed nervously. “So what is it that you would like my help with?”

He beckoned me around to his side of the desk, the array of screens certainly looked impressive, Sky Sports, NBC Football, Playboy Channel, Nickelodeon and one small green RADAR screen. He gestured for me to sit down, again looking round over both shoulders to make sure no one else could hear.

“You see Friar...” he was interrupted by the crackle of the radio, “Pffft hayhayhay bling-bling-blong haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa  broooo haaaaaaaaaaaa Did I tell you about my new girlfriend?” Chuck rolled his eyes, pressed the Push To Talk button on his headset and said (without even asking for a pilot identity) “Psycho, you are clear to land runway Two Zero Zero, Tower out”. Not wanting to be disturbed again he turned off the radio. “Shouldn’t you leave that on” I said whilst nervously pointing to the blips on the RADAR screen. “Naw, they’ll be fine” he replied.

“You see Friar” he began again; as he spoke he removed his glasses, leaving his eyes in a squint. He rubbed them and slowly they went back to normal. “I got dis ting for Brenda, you know, the barmaid down at da Downed Pilot”. “Yes, I think I know of her” I replied, not wanting to give too much away.

“Well, it’s like this Friar. When I go down there for a drink, and she pulls me a pint of your fine English Bitter,” his face turned skywards and held a wistful expression, “the pint that swirls like the wheat in a golden English meadow, the luscious creamy texture that slowly massages the back of your throat as it slips effortlessly down” Chuck then closed his eyes and slowly licked his lips as if to savour every last drop (that last sentence was sponsored by the British Beer and Brewing Society) she gives me this little wink, and well, I just go weak at da knees. But then when all you fly-boys come in I don’t get a look in. I not sure if she even remembers dat I am there. What can I do to get her to notice me Friar?”

“Well” I nervously started, “Well, I have heard that Brenda is a very popular girl and keen to join in with the staff from the airfield, although I must warn you that I think she can turn nasty, a bit violent. I did hear that one of the motor pool mechanics described her as a “slapper” so if you do get close, watch your face.” I rose from the chair and said “Leave it with me and I will see what I can do. It’s been nice meeting you, and perhaps your keep a runway clear just for me when I attempt an approach?” “Friar, the way you come in, I’ll keep the whole friggin’ airfield clear!” I waved good-bye and left the Control room.

I climbed back into the Jeep and headed off the airfield and back home. As I drove my thoughts turned to Brenda, well actually two things came to mind when I think of Brenda……Brenda and a pint of Spitfire.

© Friar-One January 2007