One minute you're planning a great big fuck off weekend at Fairford Air Show, with an early start, pole position in the grandstand, great big zoom lenses primed and loads of environmentally unfriendly and hugely noisy death and killing machinery whizzing past at 3oo mph.
The next you're nursing a hangover and sat in front of the TV all day long feeling sorry for yourself because thanks to the good old British Summer, the vast amounts of rainfall that have fallen thus far in July have waterlogged the whole Air Show site and the organisers called the whole thing off. yep, the whole of the flying displays cancelled with the a stroke of the proverbial pen.
250,000 people's planned weekend flushed down the drain unlike the water around RAF Fairford. We decamped to the pub on Friday night after finding out, the eintention being to determine if any sort of Plan B would compensate. Short of a Pink Floyd reunion with us getting a back stage pass there was nothing that even flickered us into life. Only one thing for it then.
Guinness.
Loads of Guinness.
Loads and loads of Guiness.
And a great big fat Cuban cigar, normally reserved for celebrations but in this case used to soften the fucking blow.
And soften the blow the guiness and the cigar did on the night, but at the usual price of a headache that felt like I'd been hit with a cricket bat by Kevin Pietersen. This is why there's no God. If there was then he'd have sympathised with our plight and waived the hangover fee just for one day.
I ended up gardening for fuck sake. Which in the scheme of things doesn't really come close to seeing an F22 Raptor do a vertical take off does it?
Later, GJ
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