This is me!

To: Mr T E McBride CEO   From: Capt. A Hall   April 16 2002   Dear Mr McBride. I was greatly honoured to learn that you had made a personal visit to my office and I apologise that my re-arranged schedule prevented me from being present at the intended meeting. I must emphasise, however, that the plants in the corner of my office pointed out to you by Miss Tomlinson are most certainly not Cannabis. I purchased the seeds during our night stop in Tangiers and the tests that are currently in progress at the police laboratory will doubtless confirm that it is a harmless species of decorative plant, exactly as the gentleman in the market assured me. Your own extensive travels throughout the African Continent will have made you well aware of the high regard in which beasts of burden are held in those countries. In retrospect, it is unfortunate that some members of our crew saw fit to bring a camel back to the hotel. My own opinion was that the animal should have been t...

    Gemma.   A perfect lady       I was there when she was born early one cold morning in March. I held her when she was just ten minutes old and I marveled at how perfect she was.   I was there when her brother and her sister were born too, but something deep inside me told me that Gemma was very special. She lay quietly in my arms, her eyes tightly shut. Looking at the tiny creature I marveled at the perfection of her body and realised at that moment that we were destined to be very close indeed.   Gemma was the absolute replica of her mother. She had almost exactly the same markings, even down to the white smudge over her right eye. When she was old enough to leave her mother, I proudly collected the Springer Spaniel puppy and bore her in triumph to her new home. Although she was surrounded by new toys and every care had been taken to ensure her comfort and well-being, the first two or three nights were traumatic both for the pu...

The Colonel’s Trousers     There comes a time, alas, when advancing years make one less suitable for certain occupations.   Although I was still sound in wind and limb with a Class One air force medical and all vital organs functioning in the appropriate manner, the powers-that-be had decreed that pilots over a certain age would not fly the Lightning.   Although quite easy to fly, the Lightning was very fast, even by today’s standards and a one second lapse in concentration at top speed would use up over two thousand feet of real estate.   That’s a lot.   Work it out. The venerable Lockheed Hercules on the other hand proceeded at a stately three hundred and seventy miles per hour and was considered a suitable mount for a pilot in his dotage.   With a degree of apprehension, I travelled to the Operational Conversion Unit at RAF Brizenorton to meet the tormentors who would introduce me to the huge four-engined beastie. Ground school lasted two ...

To: Mr T E McBride CEO   From: Capt. A Hall   April 11 2002 Dear Mr McBride.   Thank you for your letter.   May I start by commenting on your fine sense of humour. Not many men in your position would sign themselves as “The Old Fart,” especially on Company Letterhead.   As you so forcibly suggested, I have taken Simon Watson, my First Officer aside and requested that he explain the circumstances of the arrest and subsequent delay to the departure of our aircraft from Tenerife. It appears that whilst dining in the Sombrero restaurant, he had extended his hand behind him to relieve muscular tension. At this point, the waitress reversed onto his hand. He tells me that he is unsure why she was walking backwards.   The ensuing difference of opinion between Simon and the German live-in partner of the waitress was greatly exaggerated by the police. There was admittedly, a somewhat bitter exchange of epithets between the two and one or two blows may h...

All in the Game There appears to be a tendency amongst professional aircrew to partake in silly and often irresponsible activities. This seems to infect fliers of a previous generation more than the pilots of today which is a pity. The camaraderie so very common in the sixties and seventies has all but disappeared. Admittedly, some of the games, many originating in the Officers’ Mess had the possibility, indeed, the probability of inflicting significant injury and frequently involved the shedding of blood. One of those rather lethal games was a competition known as Deck Landings and was taught to us by some Norwegian pilots during a diversion to their base with a very sick engine. To set the stage, two long tables were placed end to end and the surfaces liberally lubricated with beer. Participants stripped to the waist would run around the circumference of the room with arms outstretched sideways, making engine noises. Approaching the tables, they would ‘launch’ into the air...

From: Capt. A Hall   April 10 2002   Dear Mr McBride,   Thank you for your memo, which I read on my return from Malaga.   I can readily see how my remark about the ‘Old Buzzard’ might have been open to misinterpretation and I apologise for any offence caused.   I note from your memo that you wish to discuss crew discipline as a matter of some urgency. As applied to the ladies of the Cabin Crew, perhaps the cabin Crew Supervisor could more effectively handle this aspect. I feel that the matter of their alleged dancing on the tables in the lounge bar in the Ramada Hotel in Barcelona is of little significance. There were two Qantas crews also in residence and it would have been difficult to identify our girls as they had their skirts over their heads. I suspect that the elderly gentleman who attempted to climb on the table with them probably just overbalanced. I am sure that neither of our girls actually pushed him and I feel certain that neither girl wou...

Let me say right at the start.  The Letters to Mr McBride are a figment of my imagination.  There is NO Capt Allen Hall, there is NO Mr McBride despite what tall tales might be told by former airline colleagues.  These stories reflect a time when aircrews were of a less serious disposition and previous generations of pilots (i.e. my generation) were prone to being ...um...original.   Read on and I hope you enjoy.  There are eight letters in all but I shall post them sparingly. The Letters to Mr McBride 1 From: Capt. A Hall   Dear Mr McBride,   Ref: Your telephone call of April 7.   I regret that I was unable to take your call personally. As you will be aware, I was, at the time of your call, some 400 miles away, over the Atlantic Ocean. Miss Jennifer Thomlinson apprised me of the content of your message and I feel that it is appropriate to answer you by e-mail.   May I state quite firmly that the circumsta...

The Target Seventeen thousand feet. Two hundred and twenty miles per hour. Fuel consumption seriously compromised by the thirty-foot long white target banner which we tow behind us. I am flying the Gloster Meteor in a very lazy circle, a circle which takes twelve minutes to complete. Below us, sparkling in the late summer sunshine, is the North Sea. Forty miles distant is the island of Sylt, just off the Danish-German border. For the moment, all is peaceful. I mentally rehearse the almost impossible procedure for abandoning the aircraft. As this version of the “meatbox” has no ejection seats, should it become necessary to leave the aircraft to find its own way home, one must jettison the canopy, undo the seat harness, check that you haven’t undone the parachute harness by mistake, hang on to the windshield then dive over the left side, hoping to avoid the left engine and the tailplane. A frightening series of events. Unusually on this trip the rear seat is empty. Usually,...

                                                                   Alice We get snow in England. Oh yes we do. Not, of course to the extent that our Colonial Friends get snow, but we do get snow. The heaviest and nastiest snows cleverly time their arrival to coincide with long distance band bookings. At least, they did in the 1970s when our band transport was Alice. Alice was a retired ambulance and was generally reliable. Any defects could usually be repaired by one of the two items in our tool kit, namely, a roll of Duck tape and a can of WD40. If it moved and shouldn't, we used the tape. If it didn't move and should, then the WD40 made an appearance. Should either of those remedies be ineffective, then a bit of percussive maintenance usually solved the problem (hitting the offending component with a ha...

Ben and Beth walk into the schoolyard.   Ben has been sick on the bus.   Beth looks at Ben. Ben is a funny green colour.   Ben had a heavy night last night with Mary   They had a heavy night under the railway bridge.   Beth sees Mr. Snelgrove in the schoolyard.   Mr. Snelgrove is the head teacher.   Mr. Snelgrove is not very nice.   Mr. Snelgrove is thin and tall.   He has a cough and a bad temper.   Mr. Snelgrove smokes a lot in his room.   Even though the school is a no smoking zone.   Beth thinks this is very unfair.   She has to go behind the toilets when she wants to smoke.   Mr. Snelgrove sees Beth. He sees Ben.   He sees Mary and Eric and Darren and Little Sidney.   “Good morning children!” says Mr. Snelgrove.   Mr. Snelgrove is smiling. He is smiling at the children.   Beth looks over her shoulder.   She looks to see who Mr. Snelgrove is smiling at.   Mr. Snelgrove never smiles at...

I should start by saying that weddings do not fill me with great joy. I have had some where I played a leading role, several as a guest and many as a menial musician, paid to entertain the masses by providing music to fight by. A good friend had decided to take the giant leap and asked me if I would provide the organ backing for the main event as the organist who regularly played in the church had claimed sickness although the event was some three months ahead. The organ installed in the church was a Hammond C3, an animal with which I am very familiar so with a degree of reluctance I agreed. The programme featured the Arrival of the Queen of Sheba instead of the more traditional Bridal Chorus and the usual recessional Mendelssohn ( also known as the Retreat of the Vanquished). Sadly, I was unaware that I was to be joined by the choir from the school where my friend was a teacher and three members of the school orchestra, two recorders and a violin. That was the first indi...

As a former military pilot, I am frequently asked two questions. "Have you ever had a crash?" and "Have you ever seen a UFO?" The answers, in the order of questions are - yes and perhaps. A crash, in layman's terms is an unintentional contact with geography resulting in damage to an aircraft. In my long and substantially unremarkable career in the defiance of gravity, I have survived several incidents with only minor injuries despite a training incident in a helicopter resulting in the total loss of the machine and the burying of the nose section of a Twin Otter in a giant anthill in Malawi after an aborted takeoff. In the Royal Air Force, where we frequently reached heights in fighter aircraft where the speed of sound reached almost walking speed (if one could walk at around 660 mph) there were several crew room stories featuring unexplained sightings.  Such reports were seldom reported officially because any pilot claiming to have seen 'flying saucers'...

                                                                Angus There are several tales about my Uncle Jimmy who closely followed the family tradition of eccentricity. Some aspects of this behaviour might have stemmed from having been brought up in a Scottish farming community where a journey even to the next village involved several days of careful planning. I prefer to believe that having experienced at first hand the terrible conditions of trench warfare in the Great War, he disassociated himself from the modern world and retreated to a life of idyllic simplicity.   Strolling in a leisurely manner around his farm, he would take comfort from the sight of his small herd of Aberdeen Angus bullocks as they devoured the rich grass. Occasionally, puffing furiously on ...