took it off another forum but had to post. i was in tears reading this thing....just read it 
A PLEA FOR HELP FROM A GROUNDED
AUSTRALIAN PILOT TO HIS FRIEND
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate. But first, I'd better tell you what happened
during my last flight review with the CAA examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA dickhead) seemed a reasonable sort of bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property, and let me operate from my own strip.
Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead because the ALA (Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead it was
more convenient than the ALA, and despite the power lines that cross about midway down the strip it's really not a problem to land and take-off because at the half-way point down the strip you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So although I had done the pre-flight inspection only four days earlier I decided to do it all over again. Because Ron was watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded because the color finally returned to Ron's cheeks. In fact, they were a bright red.
In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him that I was going to combine the test
with some farm work as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172.
We climbed aboard but Ron started getting on to me about weight and balance calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that thing was a waste of time because calves like to move around a bit, particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground. So it's bloody pointless trying to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure that we remain pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by tramping hard on the brakes and gunned her to 2,500 rpm. I then discovered that Ron has very acute hearing,, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded that I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector machanism. The selector can't be moved now but it doesn't matter because it's jammed
on "All Tanks" so I suppose that's okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on a vibration from a
steel thermos flask which I keep in a beaut possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to relax Ron because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the cockpit roof.
I released the brakes to taxi out but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell", I thought, "not the starboard chalk again." The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around just in time to see a rock thrown by the propwash
disappear completely through the windscreen of his brand new Commodore.
While Ron was ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we taxi to the ALA and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn'tsay a word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off point, then he bloody screamed his head off.
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens after take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the kerosene I siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the wings up and down a few times to mix it up.
Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine if you know how to coax it properly. Anyway, at this stage, Ron seemed to lose all interest in my flight test.
He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I didn't think that anybody was a Catholic these days.)
I selected some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax. Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you know getting fax access out here is a friggin joke and the bloody weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340 I might have to change my thinking on that. Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild camels heading into my
improved pasture.
I hate bloody camels and always carry a loaded .303 clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the bastards. We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out the effect on Ron was friggin' electric.
A PLEA FOR HELP FROM A GROUNDED
AUSTRALIAN PILOT TO HIS FRIEND
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate. But first, I'd better tell you what happened
during my last flight review with the CAA examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA dickhead) seemed a reasonable sort of bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property, and let me operate from my own strip.
Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead because the ALA (Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead it was
more convenient than the ALA, and despite the power lines that cross about midway down the strip it's really not a problem to land and take-off because at the half-way point down the strip you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So although I had done the pre-flight inspection only four days earlier I decided to do it all over again. Because Ron was watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded because the color finally returned to Ron's cheeks. In fact, they were a bright red.
In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him that I was going to combine the test
with some farm work as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172.
We climbed aboard but Ron started getting on to me about weight and balance calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that thing was a waste of time because calves like to move around a bit, particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground. So it's bloody pointless trying to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure that we remain pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by tramping hard on the brakes and gunned her to 2,500 rpm. I then discovered that Ron has very acute hearing,, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded that I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector machanism. The selector can't be moved now but it doesn't matter because it's jammed
on "All Tanks" so I suppose that's okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on a vibration from a
steel thermos flask which I keep in a beaut possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to relax Ron because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the cockpit roof.
I released the brakes to taxi out but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell", I thought, "not the starboard chalk again." The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around just in time to see a rock thrown by the propwash
disappear completely through the windscreen of his brand new Commodore.
While Ron was ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we taxi to the ALA and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn'tsay a word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off point, then he bloody screamed his head off.
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens after take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the kerosene I siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the wings up and down a few times to mix it up.
Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine if you know how to coax it properly. Anyway, at this stage, Ron seemed to lose all interest in my flight test.
He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I didn't think that anybody was a Catholic these days.)
I selected some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax. Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you know getting fax access out here is a friggin joke and the bloody weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340 I might have to change my thinking on that. Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild camels heading into my
improved pasture.
I hate bloody camels and always carry a loaded .303 clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the bastards. We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out the effect on Ron was friggin' electric.
