Happy Morning

 Savouring my cup of tea on the morning of 1 January 2021

Christmas Irritants 2020

I’d like to start by thanking all those whose Christmas greetings, from their villas in Monnetnirvana, wished me everything I deserved from Brexit.  They, apparently, remained proudly and steadfastly “European” so thank you all for reminding me of my petty small mindedness.  Which leads nicely to number nine, the bitter and malevolent Theresa May for whom, as we all know, Brexit means Brexit.  Mushroom suggests a few more long walks but, this time, pausing for breath occasionally to take a good look in the mirror of your hiking compass.  Gary Lineker, at number eight could do with some damping of his moral compass.  Mushroom is sick to death of the saintly Lineker’s 360-degree views on everything delivered with all the smug assurance that working for the BBC, amongst others, at £1.75m a year allows. Sam Coates, Sky’s Deputy Political Editor is enjoying particular prominence due to the enforced absence of his boss, the ghastly Beth Rigby, who has been rightly yellow-carded for a breath-taking display of Covid hypocrisy.  The sea green incorruptible Coates has a substantial arsenal of hindsight with which to berate the Government in general and the Prime Minister in particular (who he regularly invites to take personal responsibility for every outcome of policy).  Now revelling in his promotion he tantalises his viewers with enigmatic innuendo and contrived metaphors which make Mushroom squirm.  Mushroom hopes you too are caught out and follow your boss to the naughty step.  Jeremy Hunt, the longest serving Health Secretary in parliamentary history, oversaw a catalogue of disasters including the junior doctor’s strike and publicly backed Theresa May’s Brexit sell-out.  He now, petulantly, delivers his pearls of hindsight on health matters from the cosy sinecure as Chairman of the Health and Social Care Select Committee (vice Sarah Wollaston who got what she deserved in the 2019 General Election).  At number five, the teflon President Nicola Krankie blames everything that goes wrong on Westminster and claims personal credit for the little that goes right.  This is all very tiresome but Mushroom takes comfort from the storm clouds of revelation on the horizon and looks forward to bitter and spiteful allegations and counter allegations to come as she and her sociable old boss, Alex Salmond, square up in their fight for political survival. Wee Nicola only just pips the strabismic Claudia Winkleman, reportedly the highest earning woman in the BBC with a salary well over three times that lavished on Dominic Cummings.  As the chorus line Gilbert & Sullivan’s Trial by Jury observes: “she has often been taken for forty three/In the dusk, with a light behind her.”  Mushroom repeats his advice to get a haircut. And while on the subject of rotten tomatoes, mention at number 3 goes to the pneumatic Motsi Mabuse – Mushroom wonders who she is and what is she for.  For Number 3 this year goes to Jurgen Klopp whose success as a football manager could not be questioned were he not a Kraut.  His shaggy chic appearance, teeth flashing like an aircraft anti-collision beacon and meticulous attention to English grammar, as only Germans can, simply gets up my nose.  I hesitated in nominating Lewis Hamilton again, what with current sensitivities and the danger of being cancelled for not showing solidarity to his causes.  But during the year this over-paid kart racer has excelled in promoting Marxist political policies which only serve to divide society and isolate whole of it chunks in hand-wringing victimhood.  We shall hear more of this as Hamilton “guest edits” Today on BBC Radio Four on Boxing Day, presumably by audio link from his yacht in sunnier climes.  Excruciating as Hamilton’s posturing has been, unlike in previous years where it has been difficult to separate the top three, in 2020, the clear irritants of the year are Their Royal High Horses, Megananharry.  Like the protected species they have become, the super-woke Sussexes have reluctantly accepted great wealth and riches to highlight and elevate diverse perspectives and voices.  They have even taken the moral high ground by endorsing an “amazing” coffee brand, the world’s first instant oat milk latte.  For Meghan, just like Claudia, a personal grooming tip for 2021 - wear longer dresses. Where Mushroom comes from, Bonnie Lass, the sight of those lower limbs bearing your Californian pile of piffle would attract an endearing rejoinder – “hadaway sparras’ ankles.”

  

A Chipmunk Surprise

One of the features of a Blogger is the ability to track the number of page views.  Occasionally I recognise people I know through their comments but I received a rare surprise a couple of days ago when a reader, referencing my Chipmunk flying recollection in a recent post, contacted me and pointed out that next January it will be 50 years since I had sent him on his first solo flight from the, then, satellite airfield, Rufforth.  I scurried to my Pilot's Flying Log Book and there he was for January 25th 1971, his name underlined as was my practice to indicate a "first solo."  I note that I flew 5 times that day, including supervising the first solo from Air Traffic Control, so I doubt whether I would have stopped for lunch.

The nicest part of the surprise contact is that my old student informs me that he is a part owner of a civilian registered Chipmunk and he has invited me to fly it with him when the weather gets better next year.  Naturally, I accepted the invitation with alacrity and blew the dust from an old copy of "Chipmunk T Mk10 Pilot's Notes." Turning to the handling section I note that “the aircraft is pleasant to fly; the controls are light and well harmonised and remain responsive throughout the speed range.”   Just as I remembered it! This is me, in the back, somewhere over a snow covered Yorkshire a month later in 1971.

Kneeling

 

Wayne Rooney and other disciples, terrified of offending woke orthodoxy and anxious to signal their virtue, were quickly off their marks to condemn the Millwall football supporters who expressed their disagreement with their players “taking the knee” before their recent game with derby County.  Most football fans, Newcastle United fans in particular, have experienced the utter desolation of relegation from one league to another - from being the centre of attention in the Premier League of football consciousness to the also-rans of the Championship, League One and below.  Its not a nice feeling as over-paid ex-players explain your demise in patronising clichés.  Neither is it, I suppose, particularly comfortable being white working class in post-industrial Britain – feeling a stranger in your own land and pushed to the fringes of political consciousness by the relentless woke agenda which doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the values that, hitherto, have shaped your life.  It could be that, far from disagreeing with the concept of equality, the Millwall supporters, probably mostly white working class, were simply expressing their own frustration and sense of victimisation at the swing of the political pendulum?

A Flying Recollection (Don't Try This at Home)

 

On my morning walk this morning, in the anti-cyclone that Paul Hudson had said would bring fog, I paused in the still sunlight to take in the view to the south east which was dominated by the eerie vertical emission from Drax Power Station.  I recalled earlier times when 3 huge power stations heated the air to the South, Ferrybridge, Eggborough and Drax, the last one built.  They were all slightly different and my student pilots soon came to recognise the distinct features as an aid to visual navigation.  However, at this time of year, the three stations had an even greater navigational significance.

Fifty odd years ago, the anti-cyclonic gloom that was a feature of high pressure over the Vale of York could put paid to flying instruction for days.  The visibility was progressively reduced by the accumulation of pollution which became trapped in a temperature inversion – it was useless weather for flying instruction which normally required a decent reference to the natural horizon.  Provided one could find one’s way back to the airfield, however, there was some air work that could be done above the clouds.  Above the inversion, above the blanket of fog and stratocumulous cloud, one invariably encountered gin clear bright blue skies which were perfect for flying instruction.  Finding your way up was easy but  getting back down was more problematical, particularly in the Chipmunk training aircraft which had no navigation aids, basic air-driven instruments, an engine prone to icing and only a single radio set. Neither, in those days, was there any significant ground-based radar to lend a hand with navigation.  In emergency, one could put out a “Pan” call on the emergency frequency of 243.0.  The transmission would be intercepted by a series of geographically displaced receivers and plotted by an emergency control room at the air traffic control centre with the triangulated aircraft position displayed on a large map.  Most of the time, provided one was in range of the network of transmitters and high enough to be heard, the controller would be able to relay a fairly accurate position.  But this was a last resort and not expected to be used for routine navigation.  Here greater cunning was required.

The one thing that would break the anti-cyclonic inversion and mix the dirty air below with the rest of the atmosphere above was heat.  Heat from the sun would be absorbed by the earth the resulting radiation would then heat the air above its dew point and burn off the fog.  The rising air would take all the low-level crud and mix it with the clean air above.  That was the theory but, as the sun sank lower in the depths of winter, the amount and duration of heating reduced and became ineffective.  The fog just got worse.  This was the phenomenon known as “aircrew sunshine” – the peaceful interludes allowing busy instructors time to write their student reports, drink coffee and hang around the crew room until the Flight Commander determined that it was time to stack for the day and go to the bar.  There was time to attend to physical fitness because, sometimes, we walked to the village pub.

Nevertheless, there was fierce competition to make the best of the weather and if one could get one’s student into the air and achieve something then there was kudos to be won.  The big trap was the so-called, “suckers’ gap.”  This was the meteorological phenomenon when the weak sun managed to penetrate the grot and begin to heat the lower atmosphere.  The heating raised the cloud base and often raised the spirits by revealing a lightening in the sky.  “Can’t be long before this lot clears completely,” the sucker would think and rush to the flight-line in an attempt to be the first one airborne.  Unfortunately, the little stirring caused by the sun’s heating would actually cause colder air above to circulate and replace the warmer air below – result back to fog and embarrassment for the sucker.

So back to my walk and my view to the south and I recalled one murky day at Church Fenton when I had scratched my way through fog and layer of low cloud to burst out (if bursting out is appropriate for the Chipmunk rate of climb) above the tops to a perfect blue sky on top of a flat brilliant white cloud carpet.  It was one of those visual sensations that stay with you for ever and, in retrospect, one of the immense justifications for becoming a pilot in the first place.  When it was time to come down I could have chosen to make a “controlled descent through cloud” using ground based direction finding.  This would have involved a tedious radio direction finding homing to the overhead followed by a trombone descent in a safe corridor back to the overhead, hopefully spotting the airfield on the way in.  The controllers were very good at this procedure and it was surprisingly accurate – except it took ages and was no fun at all.

A free descent through solid cloud cover, unless one was certain of the aircraft position could be dangerous - too many airmen in the past had encountered clouds with hard centres for a free descent to be undertaken lightly.  With no navigation aids, as I said, that was seldom an option in the Chipmunk.  But back to heating – not the sun but the mighty power stations.  As I surveyed the brilliant white billiard table top of the stratocumulous cloud, I noted that each of the three coal-burning monsters produced enough heat to cause the cloud above to bubble into a distinctive mound.  The three stations were in a straight line so there was an immediate position line of three distinct bubbles to use in a position calculation. The sun’s azimuth, at its winter elevation, was easy to determine providing further situational evidence.  Finally, there was my mental air plot.  I knew where I had started; I’d flown this way for a little while, that way for a little while longer, generally turned in that area and now, here I was 20 minutes later.  During that time the wind (which I had remembered from the daily met briefing earlier in the day) had pushed me 20 minutes’ worth downwind.  So, all things considered, I was here on my map.  From here on my map to Church Fenton was 5 minutes at 90 knots over there so off we go.

As I approached the overhead I ran through the pre stalling spinning and aerobatiqc checks and for height made a mental note to recover by 1500 feet on the Church Fenton altimeter setting, the cloud base having been about 1700 feet when I climbed out half an hour earlier.  After all these years I cannot recall how much height would be lost in one complete turn of a spin and how much height should be added for the recovery manoeuvre but I calculated the number of turns I need to get down to 1500 feet.  It could have been 4 complete turns at so much per turn plus the recovery and that would have me wings level and back in control by 1500 feet.  Now, simply, throttle closed and slow the aircraft towards the stall and then full rudder (best to the left because the spin characteristics were more stable in this direction) and simultaneously stick fully back.  Hold the full rudder and the stick fully back and check that the aircraft had settled in a spin, particularly the low fluctuating airspeed and the rapid change of direction.  Begin to count the turns.  “Four, Recovering Now!”  Full opposite rudder then stick progressively forward until the spin stops.  Spin stops, centralise controls and pitch to the horizon.  And there it was, Church Fenton spread below.  Change the radio to the Tower and make a joining call for a practice forced landing, “Alpha One Three, High Key to land.”  I gave the engine a brief burst to clear the plugs of any stagnant oil and warm it just in case then continued the engine-off descent to touchdown.  A majestic constant angle of bank, throttle closed, sweeping turn to roll out and kiss the ground on three points right opposite the ATC runway caravan.  All very satisfying but not recommended for trying at home!

 

 

 

Crown Caught

 

I recently revived my old subscription to Netflix and, out of idle curiosity, have been watching the latest series of “The Crown.”  The fictional depiction has now reached the Princess Diana chapter, the object of which continues to be to denigrate Great Britain in general and the Royal Family in particular.  Nevertheless, there is a certain appeal in the photography, the sumptuous sets and the props, cars and aeroplanes in particular.  The plot is anchored on the social superiority of the Royals and the utter oikishness of the rest of us, including former Prime Ministers.  I find it fun to look out for gaffs and inconsistencies.  Last episode, for example, I was horrified to observe Her Majesty tackling her poached salmon with an ordinary knife and fork.  There could be a couple of explanations: either the butler failed to set the table correctly with fish knives and forks or Her Majesty, inadvertently, picked up the wrong implements.  Presumably all the other guests, anxious not to draw attention to the Royal mistake, would immediately pick up the wrong implements and enjoy their fish accordingly. And then there was a scene shot in the VIP cabin of one of the Royal Flight aircraft in which the cabin windows were square.  We all know, of course, of the fatigue stress problems with square windows in early marks of the Comet aircraft.  That is why they were made elliptical in later modifications. 

Nevertheless, it is entertaining TV even if the main attraction is shouting at the set.  Mushroom is eagerly looking forward to series five, to 29 June 1994, when a Royal BAE146 with the Prince of Wales at the controls careered off the end of the runway at Islay Airport.  Doubtless the scriptwriter, Peter Morgan, will contrive a nail-biting disaster sequence for the benefit of viewers but he will be pushed to better the truth for entertaining television.  Mushroom knows what really happened but, in fear of his head, his lips are sealed.

Sirens Luring Conservative Party to the Rocks

 

I was drawn to Nick Timothy (no wonder he parted company with Theresa May) in the Telegraph today who endorsed my view, yesterday, on the danger of listening to the siren voices, recently liberated, post Cummings.  Timothy believes that those who seek a reversion to comfortable Conservatism:

“want to avoid the culture war, accepting instead of resisting extreme identity politics – from transgenderism to theories of structural racism – that divide society and destroy trust and reciprocity.  And they recommend a new political emphasis, not on jobs or financial security for ordinary families but on climate change and other issues that gnaw at the conscience of the high-consuming and socially self-segregating rich.”

It is a ghastly prospect that will stop the Conservative Party being re-elected in 2014.  For goodness sake, in the midst of Covid and economic calamity it’s the economy, stupid, that matters.  Red Wall voters will be much more concerned about their job in January (2021) than tree-hugging signalling from bleeding-heart Tories.  Equally concerning, in the short term, another chunk of loyal Conservative voters will be listening to the mouth music from Brussels with great care – just exactly what did David Frost mean when he said he will not be changing the policy?