From: spam.free@softhome.net 
  
   I'm writing to you, mate, because I need your help to get me bloody pilots 
 licence 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 CASA Examiner. 
  
   On the phone, Ron (that's the CASA 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 look over my property and let me 
 operate from my own ALA. Naturally I agreed to that. Anyway, Ron turned up 
 last 
 Wednesday. 
  
   First up, he said he was a bit surprised to see the plane outside my 
 homestead 
 because the ALA is about a mile away. I explained that because the strip was 
 so 
 close to the homestead, it was more convenient than the ALA, despite the 
 power 
 lines crossing 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 the prick was watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three 
 times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded because the colour 
 finally 
 returned to Ron's cheeks - in fact they went a bright red. 
  
   In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him I was going to combine 
 the 
 test flight with 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' 172. We climbed aboard but Ron started 
 getting' into me about weight and balance calculations and all that 
 bullshit. Of 
 course I knew that sort of 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, its 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 
 Araldited 
 to neutral to ensure we remain pretty stable at all stages throughout the 
 flight. 
  
   Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimised the warm-up time by 
 tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500rpm. 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 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 mechanism. The 
 selector 
 can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All 
 tanks', so 
 I suppose that's OK. 
  
   However, as Ron was obviously a real nitpicker, I blamed the noise on 
 vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask, which I keep in a beaut 
 little 
 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 wheel chock 
 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. "Shit, now I'm really in trouble", I thought. 
  
   While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that 
 we 
 taxi to the ALA and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say 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 on 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 off 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 BJ, 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 anyone 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 NAIPS access out here is a f#*% joke and 
 the 
 bloody weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss 
 with 
 Saab340, I might have to change me thinking). Anyhow, on levelling out I 
 noticed 
 some wild camels heading into my improved pasture. I hate 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. As I fired the first 
 shot 
 his neck lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit 
 with 
 myxo. He really looked as if he had been jabbed with an electric cattle prod 
 on 
 full power. 
  
   In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost concentration for a 
 second and the next shot went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit 
 upset about the shooting (probably one of those pinko animal lovers I guess) 
 so 
 I decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre. Shortly 
 afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot trick. 
 Ron 
 had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on full 
 flap, 
 cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet down to 500 feet at 
 130 
 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and the little needle 
 rushing up 
 to the red area on me ASI. Shit, what a buzz, mate! 
  
   About half way through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the 
 calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was going to 
 comment on this unusual sight but Ron looked a bit green and had rolled 
 himself 
 into the foetal position and was screamin' his f*&%# head off. Mate, talk 
 about 
 being in a bloody zoo. You should've been there, it was so bloody funny! 
  
   At about 500 feet I levelled out, but for some reason we continued 
 sinking. 
 When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no noise 
 no 
 nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in me head saying 
 "carby 
 heat, carby heat", so I pulled carby heat on and that helped quite a lot, 
 with 
  
 [continued in next message] 
  
 --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05 
  * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)