tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4760486357856041012024-03-17T04:19:04.441-07:00Chelsy Swannchelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-34579910745981986282024-02-17T03:52:00.000-08:002024-02-17T03:52:01.905-08:00<p> To anyone at all interested: The following novels, all written as books but are really screenplays, are now on offer for the film rights.</p><p>THE STACK...Family saga, set mainly in the UK, Australia, USA. Begins during the first world war to the present time..By RJ Dodd.</p><p>MAGINTY'S QUEST...A young readers story, set in the West Indies and the UK. It involves the adventures of three sea creatures tasked with sabving a family in the UK. A complex adventure that involves Pirates of old and modern day ones..A great romp By RJ Dodd and Mary Lou Clarke..under the pen name of Chelsy Swann.</p><p>THE SANDRUNNERS..Adventure story which follows a young egyptians effort to enter the New Olympics in 1896. There are many forces agianst him and he has to beat them all in order to win the hand of his girlfriend...and he insists on running with hiis best friend and running pal..Suzy..a small camel</p><p>Set in the UK, Egypt, Greece. Written by RJ Dodd and Mary Lou Clarke, under the pen name of Chelsy Swann</p><p>THE FIDDLER. Set in Italy in 18th century.Against all odds a young farm hand tries to join a major orchestra touring Italy..On his life journey he falls in love, loses that person and has to find another way to live. He has to overcome many obstacles, Kidnapping, attacks, and becomes a criminal, then a surprising thing happens.</p><p>By RJ Dodd</p><p>LEVERAGE. A contemporary story about a spy who wants to quit the business but his past adventures keep pulling him back in.In order to obtain a new life he has to sort out his past.Sometimes brutally...and he has to kill his own brother. A great story and very cinematic.Set mainly in the UK and USA. By RJ Dodd</p><p>All the books except Leverage are published on amazon.. Leverage is not published yet but a sequel is on the way.</p><p>As a Director of Photography who has shot a number of award winning films I have tried to be fast paced, slick dialogue is a feature and totally cinematic.</p><p>If interested please contact r.jdodd@outlook.com</p><p><br /></p><p>.</p><p>Wriiten </p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-71746276072343416122023-12-29T03:06:00.000-08:002023-12-29T03:06:34.331-08:00Judge<p> PS: I am a judge for BAFTA..ploughing through a lot of movies...deeply unimpressed thus far..I will write on this when the voting process is over..Seems like a lot of money has been spent on some unwatchable material....must have been the Pandemic...</p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-16240735316547101322023-12-29T02:46:00.000-08:002023-12-29T02:46:34.542-08:00Busy<p> Hi...just to let you know I have been a little busy lately..We had to spend some time in Italy..now back in the UK ..Chichester..</p><p>I am moving along with the sequel to my fifth Novel.'.Leverage'.and I am working with two writers. One of them has a stage play and the other one..a direct descendant of a famous Eenglish poet and writer..has a screenplay based on his family Both effoerts are looking good and there is some industry interest.</p><p>I hope to find some time for a few more anecdotes..I have been offered some lecture dates where I can tell a lot more stories to film buffs...more on that in 2024. And I have been offered a movie in Morrocco which should be interesting</p><p> Have a great New Year everyone X DD</p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-34384459878989957212023-06-12T03:50:00.000-07:002023-06-12T03:53:02.049-07:00Details. My e-mail is r.jdodd@outlook.com......Tel: 07860 555 794... Chelsy Swann is a pen name. I am about to publish my fifth novel...under my own name as RJ Dodd.chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-41831470101666002772022-10-03T06:52:00.003-07:002022-10-03T06:52:44.474-07:00Charleston bar.<p> Hi forgive me if I have posted this before but it is lost in the mists of time and times have certainly changed</p><p>Some years ago..late 1990s I was filming in Charleston VIrginia..we were there for about a month.</p><p>Usiusally on a Sunday most of the bars closed down and ubnless you laid some booze in then it could be a dry night.</p><p>An assistant sound lad amd myself thought we would take a walk in downtown...which was very quiet..and on the way back we noticed a long dark alley ..at the top end was a sign that said those magical words BAR..BEERS.</p><p>In we went..It was dark inside but avbsolutely popping, music was playing and folk were haveing a great time..We hutled through to the bar..The chatter stopped, the barrman approaoched and asked if he could help,,'Two beers please'</p><p>'Are you sure about that.?'</p><p>'Absolutely'</p><p>'Take a look around'</p><p>We did..it was full of black folk,</p><p>'What do you see?'</p><p>''A bar full of Americans'</p><p>He looked long and hard at us, 'You Brits?'</p><p>'Yes'</p><p>'On the house'</p><p>The chatter started up again.</p><p>It turns out that we were the first white men to go into that bar.. ever..We had a great evening, invited to the homes of some people and were told we were the first white men that some of the customers had ever had a converstuon with.</p><p>I think those days are gone but I do know that the great American Nation can overcome the ridiculous divisions that are slowly ripping their country apart Get it together folks ,, the rest of the worl needs you.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-27933523868947498962022-07-17T03:22:00.002-07:002022-07-17T05:01:42.690-07:00<p> <b>STEALING.</b></p><p>Have you ever felt the urge to steal something..to take something that does not belong to you..?</p><p>I guess most of us have at one time, maybe as kids, nicked a chocolate bar or something of little value..</p><p>I have to admit that I have never stolen anything..nothing..mainly because of my father who threatened me with dire circumstances if I did.</p><p>But one day I nearly committed grand theft.</p><p>Some years ago I went to a magical place near Bishp Stortford in England.</p><p>It was a stunning house with a large estate..massive gardens and at the far end was a workshop/ studio.</p><p>Dotted among the shrubbery in the garden were some magnificent works of art..all sculptures.</p><p>I was there to make a short film of the owner of this place.</p><p>Henry Moore.</p><p>Probably the most famous sculptor in the world.</p><p>I am a fan and I have admired his work in front of grand buildings across the globe Here I was strolling around his estate and then into his studio where a massive work was in progress.</p><p>It was a pleasant and unique day..Eventually we had to say goodbye and before we left I had to visit the toilet before we hit the road for the long journey north.</p><p>And there it was Treasure..masses of it..</p><p>Around the spacious and luxurious washroom was a shelf...and on that shelf was arranged every single miniature model of Moores major art works..they were fashioned in clay and were his first ideas for the resulting scupltures.</p><p>They were also pocket sized. </p><p>During those few moments I had to wrestle with my conscience..do I steal one, which could completely ruin my career or regret not stealing one.</p><p>My conscience is clear..the collection was left intact. But it was a close run thing. </p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-79637682695640721392021-05-17T02:09:00.001-07:002021-05-17T02:09:50.906-07:00<p> Without wishing to offend anyone this is a little gay story.</p><p>Some time ago I was contracted to work on a shoot in Manchester England..A nice city and great people .Manchester is renowned for its Gay Quarter..a few blocks of streets in one corner of the metropolis..</p><p> My usual Hotel in the City was booked out so I was assigned another one...yep..right in the centre of the gay community....No big deal..no problem..I have always worked with lotsa gay folk in the industry.</p><p>After I had checked in I needed a drink and as it was early evening I went down to the bar...It was crammed full of like minded souls, all gay and noisy...so I went out to find a quieter venue..script/paper to read etc.</p><p>I wandered the area and every pub was jam packed with the same clientele until I came across what looked like my sort of place.</p><p>.After looking through the window I could see it was busy with lotsa couples..and fairly quiet..so in I went..At the bar I ordered a pint of beer from the barman and settled on the stool to read my paper..The beer arrived and at this point the barman broke into song.."Falling in love again..what am I to do" I looked up and he was staring straight at me. I took a look around the lounge..Lotsa couples with very glamorous ladies..Not all of them, but some , were sporting off the shoulder dresses , lovely wigs, matching beards and hairy chests, usually a sequinned dress with designer accessories to die for..</p><p>The barman was still singing as I finished my drink and politely declined the free one he was offering...I walked a mile or so to find a rough old joint and settled in a corner.</p><p>The moral of the story...There isn't one except when you look through a pub window in Manchester to check out the customers make sure you are wearing your spectacles.</p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-19877261651649810462021-05-12T03:05:00.001-07:002021-05-12T03:05:10.987-07:00<p> If any visitors wish to leave a comment then please feel free.</p>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-50589594837938561752019-04-12T06:02:00.002-07:002019-04-12T06:02:40.854-07:00Creative Executive Producer.R.J.Dodd...owner of this blog site and a DoP for over fifty years..<br />
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Author of five novels:<br />
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The Stack.<br />
Maginty's Quest.<br />
The Sandrunners.<br />
The Fiddler.<br />
The Unknowns......<br />
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..has just been offered the job of Creative Executive Producer with a new film company with a good portfolio...<br />
<br />
CHUFFED.<br />
<br />
Just saying..<br />
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<br />
chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-43817019063261726822019-04-01T06:31:00.000-07:002019-04-01T06:31:20.608-07:00buying tough qualityHaving spent decades on film sets all round the globe..and having to be on my feet for most of that time I have always considered the health of my feet, not to put too much weight on them, stay slim, if blistered then take remedial steps immediately and generqally pay the attention...nothing worse than sore feet when you need to be on them all day.<br />
To that end I have always bout shoes that fit, were well made, robust, made of material that did not make my feet sweat and generally looked good.<br />
Many years ago I found that the shoes and boots made byTimberland completely fitted the bill...affordable. durable, comfortable...all the qualities I looked for in footwear..so I regularly bougyht the product, particularly when I was filming in America,<br />
One pair of boots had a particular part of my heart and its fair to say that I wore them on every occasion their qualities were needed. I had them for years...they were a little care worn, scuffed, the sole tread had worn down and so had the heel, but they still did the job...until one day.<br />
During a particularly rain sodden shoot one of my feet got wet...HORRORS, CANT BE...but it was..the beloved boots had sprung a leak, at least one of them had.<br />
Some months later I decided to have the faulty boot repaired..where better than at Timberland. Off I trotted to the Bond Street London store and handed them over.<br />
The conversation went something like this:<br />
Me..Hello, could you repair these please.<br />
Asst..Repair Sir?<br />
Me..Yes, the right one has sprung a leak...and I know they are well used but they are my favourites and I want them repaired.<br />
Asst..Sprung a leak sir?<br />
Me..Yes..the right one.<br />
Asst..I am afraid that cannot be right sir, you see, Timberland boots do not leak.<br />
Me..This one did, the right one.<br />
Asst..Sorry sir ..not possible.<br />
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Now I was becoming a little frustrated with this chap..<br />
<br />
Me..My foot got wet when it was in that boot when I was standing in a boggy field..it leaked.<br />
The assistant, without a word, took both of my boots and put them below the counter, went to a store room and came back with a brand new pair..same style, same size.H pushed the across the counter to me.<br />
Asst..Try theses sir, genuine Timberland, they will not leak.compliments of the company.<br />
<br />
The assistant took my name and address and I left the shop..with my new boots.<br />
Some months later I received a letter from the Timberland main office in America.They were extremely apologetic and they enclosed a lab report on the offending boot..some stitching has worn out and they have rectified the manufacture, they hoped the replacements were still keeping my feet dry.<br />
This is not an advert for Timberland..just a belated thank you for making great shoes and providing amazing servicechelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-69622569495913903282019-02-28T04:21:00.000-08:002019-02-28T06:39:30.629-08:00The Unknowns...first four chapters<br />
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What do you think...as yet it is unpublished and runs to over 60k words.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 24.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Unknown..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Book (Working Title..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></u></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chapter one.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Five years
ago.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Sunday
morning in a small Northern Ireland town.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
light breeze is blowing some discarded fast food wrappers and other rubbish
along the pavements on the main street which is deserted, no traffic, no
pedestrians. The churches are full and the public houses are not yet open but
it is still unusual for there to be absolutely no one walking the streets of
this normally busy little town.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>During the so called “Troubles” in this part of Ireland it was usually
taken as a warning that something untoward is about to take place and the word
has gone out…stay away.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
deserted street is being scanned through a pair of high powered binoculars from
a long distance away and a slightly elevated viewpoint…they continually move
across the area.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man
with a broad Irish accent says brusquely “They’re here …get ready.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
binoculars settle on a Garda Police car and a white<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>transit van as they move over the brow of a
hill and into the area. Moving rapidly down the road they then swiftly move
over to pull up in front of a grey granite faced building. The sign above the
heavy oak doors which are at the top of a flight of five stone steps states
that this place is a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Garda/Police
Station.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
the side of the Police Station is a narrow alley-way and walking down to the
main street is a woman in her thirties and a girl aged about eight. The little
girl has a bright green envelope in her hand which she happily waves about as
she skips alongside her mother who holds her other hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
large wooden doors to the Police Station push apart and two men wave for the
drivers in the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>car and van to come
inside. The car doors swing open and two men dressed in civilian clothes get
out and they slide open the side door of the van. Three more men get out, The
man in the middle has a grey blanket over his head.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four
men from the car form a small defensive ring around the captive as they begin
to cross the wide flagged pavement to the stone stairs.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
they exit the alley way and the little girl spots the post box at the edge of
the pavement, she lets go of her mother’s hand and runs to it. When she reaches
the post box she turns to her mother, waves the blue envelope then stands on
her tip toes as she stretches up to reach the slot.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Irishman’s voice “Stand by…on my
word…wait until they get to the door, get all the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bastards in one go”.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Police are now moving up the stairs,
the little girl is still hanging on to the envelope and grinning at her mother
who is urging her to drop the letter into the box. Both of them are unaware of
the drama being carried out on the steps behind them.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another mans voice “We can’t do it Vinny,
the woman and the kid.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now ..do it now.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No way..not kids.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fuck em..give it to me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside the small dimly lit rear bedroom in a
terrace house looking over the main street a mans hand grabs a detonator from
his colleague<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and firmly presses
the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>red button on the top.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fucking now.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the steps of the Police Station the
police have almost reached the door with their reluctant guest and the little
girl finally lets go of the green envelope when the small green delivery van
which is parked on the opposite side of the street to the station erupts in a
ball of high explosive from the two Claymore bombs which also ignite several
canisters of petrol.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An
enormous blast and fireball envelops the police and the mother and child.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man looking through the binoculars
waits for the smoke to settle and disperse, then , happy with what he sees “Got
the fuckers, all of em, that traitorous bastard will be giving nowt away, now
lets get out of here.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The multiple killing takes less than three
seconds.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Chapter
two. Present Day</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The almost constant rain downpour hammers
against the large office window, blurring the lights on the boats forging up
the River Thames and the headlights on cars that seem to be in a permanent
traffic jam on the Lambeth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bridge. The
stream of water creates a kaleidoscope of colours and this attracts the
attention of Angus McNeil, Head of Analysis,who sits behind his desk, slowly
chomping on the stem of an unlit pipe. A small desk light is the only
illumination in the room which is filled with deep shadows.,after a few more
moments of chomping he speaks.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Shit deal eh”!</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man at the other side of the desk nods
his head “Yep”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>McNeil puts<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>his pipe into a large cut glass ashtray, “Hmm, no choice, not when these
arrived.” He pushes a long white envelope across the desk “And you had no
idea?”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“None.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Very unusual, had it checked twice…totally
pukka.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And pressure?”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Masses..The top table nearly had a fit,
wanted you taken out immediately, blows everything out of the water, oddly
enough the Yanks seemed pleased.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ They got involved?”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Had to be, this crap is heading their way,
they need to deal with it now, very happy when our boy was on the trail but now
he has gone fishing, so it’s their baby.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not exactly fishing.”</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>McNeil peers at him “Oh yes...some
Orniything.”</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ornithology…bird watching”</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>McNeil nods, “Right<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>seen some of your snaps in the corridor…very
nice..wish you luck with that, not many of our feathered friends around here.”
He waves a hand towards the window which is still being washed by the heavy
rain “Cant say I blame them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s ok. I know where there are lots.”
As he speaks the man, Patrick Quinn rises from his leather chair and seems to
tower over McNeil. At six foot two and with an athletic build, Patrick looks
much younger than his xxxx years, his thick unruly dark hair enhances his
boyish looks.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peering up at him McNeil holds out his hand
“Good luck Patrick, I hope to see you back here again in six months, this
department needs you…go get the birds you are looking for.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patrick shakes his boss’s hand and without
another word picks up the envelope from the desk and leaves the room. McNeil
watches him go and then pushes himself away from the desk and steers his
wheelchair to the window where he seems to enjoy the watery view.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">85 Albert
Embankment.. MI6 Headquarters. Vauxhall. London.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Completely ignoring the gusting rain that
sweep across the city, Patrick walks rapidly through the imposing front doors
of the not so secret Secret Service building and out through the security
barriers on Albert Embankment..hardly believing his good fortune a taxi is
dropping off some passengers just as he reaches the pavement, he jumps into the
now<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>vacant cab and tells the driver<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Coopers Arms please, Flood Street,.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chelsea.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>almost continuous downpour, the Friday night crowd of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>City workers, bankers and traders begin to
arrive in droves for their<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>weekly “Fizzy
Glug” at The Coopers Arms pub. It takes only a few minutes for the ‘local’ area
pub to go from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>being occupied by a
gaggle of old regulars nursing their tepid pints of beer to being<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>standing room only as the young and wealthy
crowd begin to slake their thirst, downing copious amounts of alcoholic
beverages.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Friday night extra<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bar staff are busy supplying the demand, the
popping of corks and the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ringing of the
till is almost continuous.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This popular pub, just off the busy Kings
Road in fashionable Chelsea had recently seen an upturn in its fortunes, going
from a sleepy backwater boozer it suddenly became the drinking hole of choice
for the many young, well educated and seemingly wealthy clientele who have
moved in from the slightly less salubrious area of Fulham and Battersea as the
City of London started to boom and salaries plus bonuses began to rise
accordingly.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the big square bar the crowd is now
approaching several customers deep, all trying to attract the attention of the
busy bar staff, no one wants to sit down at the many battered old tables in the
spacious sitting area… except for Patrick who occupies one that is crammed into
a corner as far from the bar as possible. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One more occupant shares this secluded
corner of the pub, it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is a full size
stuffed brown bear, its once thick shaggy fur is now well worn with bald
patches. Standing on its rear legs like some guardian of the quiet places.
Patrick sits almost side on to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bar
and removes some sheets of paper from his brief case. He has a quick glance to
make sure no one at the bar can see the papers as he begins to leaf through
them. The first document is in letter form and is headed ..</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instructions
Regarding Immediate Leave of Absence…Terms and Conditions.</span></b><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one sheet memo is quickly scanned,
folded in half and placed back in the brief case. Two more sheets, stapled
together at the top left corner are also given a quick glance. Several of the
lines at the top have been blacked out, obscuring the names of the subjects,
below the redacted names is the heading..</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DNA
samples and comparisons for subjects named above. Strictly confidential.</span></b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He takes his time with these sheets and
looks carefully at the detailed DNA samples which are in graph form. After a
minute or so of close scrutiny these sheets are also folded in half and placed
in the case.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Taking the
last item from the table he<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>has a little
smile, the envelope is sealed with a hand written message scrawled across the
front.</span><br />
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<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
the sole attention of CIO Patrick Quinn.</span></b><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Underneath that message and in the same
scrawled writing it says.. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Delivered
sealed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and by hand via the USA Embassy
London. </span></b><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patrick rips open<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the envelope <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and takes out a small card which is once again
in the same handwriting<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>..</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bendigo..
Oregon..Confirmed. Call me when in situ..B..x</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patrick stares at the card, it carries no
more information, except the fact that his already problematic life is about to
take another turn, it may not be for the better.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaning back in his rickety old chair,
which matches the table, both bought from a junk shop sale by a long since
departed publican, he slides the card back into the envelope and then back into
the briefcase which he carefully fastens. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly turning to look at the boisterous
crowd, which he seems to be noticing for the first time, he smiles, picks up
the glass of Youngs Beer and drains it. Standing up, he puts on his rather old
fashioned raincoat, pulls out an Irish tweed woollen hat<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from the coat pocket which he jams on his
head and picking up his briefcase he carefully skirts the drinkers and pushes
his way out of the crowded<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pub where he
takes a right turn to head along the rain swept St Leonards Terrace. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Chapter
three. Mexico.</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fruit freight depot is in a neglected, sparsely lit, back street just on the
outskirts of the Mexican town of Tijuana, near the USA-Mexican border. The
shabby collection of sheds and rickety corrugated iron roofed outbuildings
glories in the name of Miguel’s Flying Fruit Freight, at least that is what the
hand painted sign above the door once said, but that had been nailed up many
years ago<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when Miguel was a young man
with dreams, dreams of quitting the hell hole of Tijuana and moving north to
what he saw as paradise, the United States of America, like his dreams the sign
is now faded, cracked and the paint chipped.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miguel’s vision of one day having a fleet
of lorries transporting the cheap fruit from the flatlands around his part of
Mexico never seemed to get off the ground, maybe it was the monthly payments to
the local “protection and insurance” gang that ran his area, paying for the
medical attention for his asthmatic wife, helping his aged mother with the rent
for her cockroach infested shack or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>maybe he was just a terrible business man.</span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these concerns mattered not at all
to him now as he and his two employees, a couple of middle aged men he had
known from his childhood, lay on the blood soaked earth just inside the yard
where he kept his one battered old truck. It would never matter to him because
just beside his blood spattered body and the bodies of his two men lay three
severed heads, theirs. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The execution had been swift and brutal,
four men had walked into the front office, all of them carrying guns. Miguel
and his two old friends were engaged in their nightly game of cards. One of the
intruders motioned for the three amigos to move out into the rear yard where
one of the gunmen spoke only one word “Arridolarse”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the three Mexicans immediately obeyed him and
knelt on the ground,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with amazing speed
two of the gunmen unsheathed large cane cutting machetes and simply lopped off
their heads, it took three seconds.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Business discussion and
conclusion…Execution…. Mexican Drug Cartel style.</span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds of flying night bugs flitting
around the lone suspended light over the yard paid no attention to the scene
below them as the unlocked<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wire mesh
gate was pushed open and one of the gunmen climbed into the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>decrepit and careworn vehicle, casually
driving it out into the lane where<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>another vehicle, a large Mercedes, is waiting..The headlights on the
limousine flashes once and it moves off, followed by the fruit lorry. They both
move slowly along the still dark alleyway towards the slightly better lit main
road leading to the bright er lights of Tijuana where the early morning traffic
is beginning to cram the streets.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Chapter
four. London.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patrick turns the corner into the narrow
little Smith Street and still bending into the foul weather he makes his way
along the row of small artisans cottages which have now become very fashionable
and expensive places to live in this part of Chelsea. No one else is braving
the weather and he is the only pedestrian on the street as he stops at a door
halfway along the deserted<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thoroughfare.</span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Entering the house he walks down the short
passageway, takes off his coat and hangs it on a wall mounted coat rack and
turns left into the living room and dining area. Since inheriting the house
some years ago from his mother he has spent a lot of time and money
transforming the interior and what looks like a narrow little abode from the
street is in fact a very modern, spacious home with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a combined living, dining and kitchen
area<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>which stretch back into<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the property, where a large glass
conservatory is comfortably furnished. </span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking a heavy crystal tumbler from the
kitchen worktop he pours himself a generous measure of whisky from a half empty
bottle, adds a small drop of soda water and takes a long drink.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slowly turns and looks back into the now
dark<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>living area and leans against the
kitchen worktop scanning the many framed pictures that almost tell the story of
his life, many of them are of wildlife, mainly the feathered variety and along the
top of the fireplace are a number of family pictures, mainly of a woman and her
child. He tips his glass towards them .</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without bothering to look he reaches behind
himself, puts down the whisky, takes the phone handset from its charger and
slowly begins to punch in a number.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-48525733286500035662019-01-04T07:09:00.002-08:002019-01-04T07:09:36.805-08:00USA Passport control .. and then some.Some years ago on a visit to the United States this little incident took lace at the passport control desk at San Fran Airport..<br />
I had just flown all the way down from the UK to San Fran, a trip of about 13 hours, great trip, club Class all the way.As ujsual I joined the seemingly endless queue to have my passport checked and after aboutb two hours I was finally the next one up. During my wait time several more jumbo jets had arrived from various parts of the globe and they had disgorged their passengers, hundreds of them..all behind me. But I was next.<br />
I got waved through to the desk and my friendly greeting was completely ignored by the Passport Control Officer..she didnt seem happy in her job, about five feet tall and the same across the shoulders, she grabbed my passport, looked at me, looked at the passport again and said.<br />
PCO"You here for business or pleasure?"<br />
Me, smiling.."Both."<br />
WRONG ANSWER<br />
PCO."Are you here for business or pleasure?"<br />
ME, slightly concerned.."Errn,,both."<br />
PCO..Slightly irritated and not looking me in the eye "Are you here for business or pleasure?"#<br />
ME ..now quite concerned and a little hesitant.."Both...Officer."<br />
PCO..still not looking at me, waves her hand nonchalantly at the massive queue behind me."See that line sir?"<br />
ME ..I looked...horrified..it was even longer "Yes."<br />
PCO "Would you mind going to the back of that line, your hearing might improveas you wait and you may be able to answer my simple question."<br />
Ok..I had reached peak angry time now and I moved to where I could look her in the face as she shoved my passport back across the desk to me "No."<br />
PCO..Who had never heard that word addressed to her in her almighty position of power, she was outraged and almost choked on "Whaaaatt?"<br />
ME.."You asked me a question which I have answered several times...I am not trying to deceive you I just want you to stamp my passport so that I can go and enjoy the delights of your fair city...you seem to have a problem with that>"<br />
PCO..Now completely out of it and resting one hand on the butt of her big automatic pistol at her side "Go to the rear of the line, learn some manners and get your correct answer ready, now."<br />
ME Thinking I should grab someone nearby as a shield, fearlessly said."No..you get me your supervisor."<br />
That was the magic trick..she stared at me with total hatred ..hesitated a moment<br />
or two then grabbed a phone from the desk top, muttered something I did not catch, put down the phone and turned away from me as we waited.Two minutes later a man in a suit and tie arrived, he wore a name tag around his neck and seemed to be a person of authority, he gave me a brief nod and turned to the PCO<br />
POA.."What is the problem?"<br />
Still without looking my way she told him "This passenger refuses to answer my question...Sir."<br />
POA "Which is?"<br />
PCO. "I asked if he was travelling for business or pleasure?"<br />
POA Turning to me "And are you?" <br />
ME.."Yes"<br />
POA "How?"<br />
ME "I intend finishing my film which is what the visa is for and then plan a driving tour of California."<br />
POA.. grabs my passport from the desk and stamps it vigorously, hands it back and apologises for the delay, waves me through, as I pass the PCO the POA leans towards her and says,,(His words) "You fucking idiot, when your shift has finished come to my office."<br />
<br />
I suppose there must be some point to this story, cant really think of one except avoiding standing at the rear of a Passport queue,,,for the second time...maybe one should always ask for the supervisor.chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-66736551756466057572018-12-01T00:47:00.000-08:002018-12-01T00:47:08.529-08:00Tattoos...why I hate them.Tattoos...<br />
For a woman to tattoo her body is like taking a beautiful Ming Dynasty vase and hitting it with a hammer to make it crack...Ladies you are flawless...having some meaningless Oriental motto or saying running across your back will not make you more beautiful..it will make you look like an idiot.<br />
On recent film shoot in a city just north of London I saw about six tattoo shops along the main street..they were busy..all of them..the odd thing was that most of the clientele were very overweight females having some decal permanently slashed across whatever part of her anatomy she dared to reveal in public..When they went into the salon they were very obese..when they left they were still obese, quite a lot poorer and wearing a tattoo..they were not any more attractive or alluring, most of the other clientele seemed to be composed of young men who thought they were being made more manly and attractive by having their usually scrawny arms covered in fearsome looking crea6ures..it didnt work..they were still scrawny young men with a problem and perhaps only attractive to the obese women..<br />
<br />
Keep this crap off your body....you simply do not need it.<br />
<br />
On a recent film shoot a very attractive young actress turned up at the readthrough , then later turned up on the film set to deliver her lines..then off to wardrobe..where her career came to a shuddering halt..Her character required her to wear short sleeves and a low cut top, plus a short skirt..She was lathered in tattoos..arms ,legs, chest. back..She was replaced immediately with the director yelling at her that actors must be a well kept and empty vessel..not a fucking art gallery..Never seen her since.<br />
<br />
Don't be classed as a low life idiot..keep- the tattoo crap away,dont be a walking graffiti wall for some badly trained and talentless artist.<br />
<br />
And would the NHS kindly stop spending my tax money on removal..you paid to have it put on so pay to have it removed..my money can be better spent elsewhere on people with real illnesses.chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-70322694387141498472018-11-21T07:00:00.003-08:002018-11-21T07:00:48.963-08:00View from the pothole..life as seen by a total guttersnipe.This is a new line of blog from me..views of life from my unique situation..which is complex.It will be an occasional series and dependent on what irks or pleases me at the time. Stand by for a short list of bio facts;<br />
Born at the outbreak of WW2,<br />
Raised in a vermin and cockroach infested slum.Shared a room with my sister until I was 21 and she was 8...appalling time for her no doubt..<br />
Dreaful education at the local Catholic School..I knew all about a young mans travels, speeches and eventual demise in the Holy Lands..but sod all about what I needed, small things like English, Maths, History etc etc.<br />
I left this temple of religious nuttery and total lack of preparation for the world at the tender age of 14...yep..14..totally uneducated and woefully ignorant about the world and what I could make of it.<br />
Total poverty was the name of the game..Dad worked in the steelworks, liked a drink and a smoke, mum was a cleaning lady, she also shared dads leisure habits but she inadvertently gave me an opportunity like no other and probably saved me from an appalling life.<br />
When I was about ten years old , mum had a job cleaning at a mansion house owned by two brothers and two sisters..none had married, no children, nice people, very wealthy, mum would take me along with her and park me in wonderland...the now very old family had kept their play room and...YAHOO...their library completely intact and they were very happy for me to play with their old toys and read their books..nirvanha<br />
Incidentally I was top in every school subject when I left but I knew instinctively that more of that education stuff was needed..I read everything I could lay may hands on..voracious springs to mind.<br />
No TV..cos no electricity, gas light only, I travelled the world every evening, flying through massive tomes from the mansion.<br />
Then I discovered the Cinema.Five theatres in my town, I could visit all of them twice a week when the show changed but I needed money to finance this extravagance so I took a paper round and indulged my cinematic fantasies.<br />
Thwe school did not approve of my financial endeavours as it meant I missed out on after school religious lessons which were compulsory.Every morning for two years the Headmaster gave me six swipes of the cane on each hand, the pain was so bad that it was impossible to hold a pen for the first two lessons...but I got to see the movies...worth it<br />
OK that is a part bio, more next time...but let me tell you what my pet hate and subject will be.<br />
TATTOOS.<br />
See you soon<br />
<br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-30646620959107362632018-11-21T04:53:00.002-08:002018-11-21T04:53:22.439-08:00feeding the Royal Family<h2 class="date-header" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position-x: left; background-position-y: top; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(170, 177, 35); border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px; bottom: 933.13px; color: #908d6a; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1px; margin-left: -15px; margin-right: -15px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 0px; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: static; right: 15px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="border-left-color: rgb(170, 177, 35); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: rgb(170, 177, 35); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 0px; display: block; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; line-height: normal; padding-bottom: 6.5px; padding-left: 15px; padding-right: 15px; padding-top: 6.5px;">Sunday, 24 April 2016</span></h2>
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Feeding the Royal Family
</h3>
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<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-1328341863431310010" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: relative; width: 586px;">
<div class="entry-meta" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: 586px;">
<time class="entry-time" datetime="2012-01-05T14:18:06+00:00" itemprop="datePublished" style="display: inline;"></time> by <span class="entry-author" itemprop="author" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;"><a class="entry-author-link" href="http://mag.reelshowint.com/author/richard-dodd/" itemprop="url" rel="author" style="color: #d52a33; text-decoration: none;"><span class="entry-author-name" itemprop="name" style="color: #d52a33; text-decoration: none;">Richard Dodd</span></a></span></div>
<div class="entry-meta" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: 586px;">
<span class="entry-author" itemprop="author" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;"><span class="entry-author-name" itemprop="name" style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;"> </span></span> </div>
You may wonder why I have raised this point in an article on a Film Makers site.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
I have filmed the British Royal Family on many occasions.. one never gets really close, mainly for security reasons.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
I have filmed various members of the family at functions and have
been allowed to follow them into state banquets and other dining
functions, but I have never been allowed to film them eating.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
The Security , Special Branch Officers , always give you the order of the boot, as in “Get Out”<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Why?<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Do members of the most elite family in the UK have eating disorders.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Were they not taught basic table manners?<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Were they never taught how to handle cutlery?<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Do they eat with their fingers, or push their faces into the food and slurp it up?<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Have you ever seen any member of this family eating, on newsreels or any other media outlet.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
They must be the most photographed family group in the world and yet no-one has ever seen food pass into their mouths.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
There may be some old Hollywood version of someone like Henry VIII
chomping on a chicken leg or a leg of lamb, before throwing the remnants
over his shoulder for the peasants or hounds to leap upon, but none of
the modern royals ever do that.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
In the “Kings Speech” I cannot recall one eating scene.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
No wonder the newest arrival is bone thin…they never eat.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Are they aliens, as some prominent conspiracy theorists would have you believe or are they just a little sloppy at the table.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
We may never know.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
A fortune in royalties (Pardon the pun) awaits the first news
man/woman to grab a few seconds of the royal chomp…keep your eyes open
out there.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-3763242292692453042018-10-26T04:19:00.001-07:002018-10-26T04:19:11.341-07:00Sharks<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<time class="entry-time" datetime="2011-08-18T07:14:11+00:00" itemprop="datePublished">ANOTHER OLDIE BUT GOODIE</time>by <span class="entry-author" itemprop="author" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="entry-author-link" href="http://mag.reelshowint.com/author/richard-dodd/" itemprop="url" rel="author"><span class="entry-author-name" itemprop="name">Richard Dodd</span></a></span> </div>
<div class="entry-content" itemprop="text" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I have just written a piece about <a href="http://mag.reelshowint.com/2011/08/17/buried-pirate-treasure-in-the-seychelles/">sunken treasure</a> in the waters off that island paradise called the Seychelles.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Then a couple of days ago, on the news, there is a report of man who
was snorkeling just twenty meters from the beach being taken by a shark,
and there is another report of a French tourist being taken just two
weeks prior to this latest incident.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A belated word of warning , if you go looking for that treasure…BEWARE OF THE SHARKS.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I spent a lot of time swimming offshore in the Seychelles and often
got a scare when a clump of seaweed on the ocean floor some twenty
/thirty feet down, would seem to move. It does put one off a little.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
All of the diving instructors that I worked with assured me that the
sharks were not a problem, one or two hammerheads, well out at sea, but
nothing in the bays.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I do not for a moment think they were lying but maybe they should
have a re-think and install some nets on the popular beaches. It would
be a great shame but it keeps the tourist trade happy. No one wants to
go on holiday and finish up as shark shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
No one can blame the sharks. It is their environment and they are hungry, humans are just a snack to them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Humans do not move too well in the water, no matter how graceful we
think our freestyle crawl is. The hungry shark sees a slow moving target
with few signs of danger, in it goes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I often think sharks have no taste buds because most of their human
targets must taste of polystyrene or latex rubber, but it must be worth
it , humans do not put up much of a struggle after the first hit and
then its easy to consume.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I must admit that I am a pool person after seeing “Jaws”. The only
way I want to go underwater these days is in a submarine, preferably a
nuclear one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The most vivid example I have seen of the capacity of sharks to
consume huge chunks of matter was on Norfolk Island. Another island
paradise, this one in the Pacific , but a paradise for entirely
different reasons.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Not many beach umbrellas and sandy floored bars there, mainly because
there is only a tiny beach and the shark population residing just
offshore puts off any swimming adventures. Not that we knew that when my
crew went for a swim when we filmed there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I won’t do a tourist brochure thing here, you can Google the place,
but it is a small rocky Island about 1000 miles out in the ocean from
mainland OZ, the most direct route is from Sydney.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It was at one time a notorious penal colony, anyone of the bad lads sentenced to go there never left, that was it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
At a certain time of the day, when the sun is very low the outline of
a circular prison compound is revealed. The prisoners were kept in
underground cages that formed a huge circle. Nice place</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Today the Island attracts what would at one time been considered a
Hippy crowd, easy come, easy go, and they have developed their own
tourist industry. Well worth a visit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
When I was there we filmed the islands refuse department, yes they do
have one, with a very smart truck. They collect the garbage from all of
the little settlements in the hills and take it to the refuse tip. In
this case, the Pacific Ocean</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Yep, they actually tip all of the assorted rubbish into the sea. The
tipping place is high on a cliff , about thirty metres above the water,
the truck tips up and all of the white, council provided, rubbish sacks
drop into the sea, slowly fill with water and then begin to sink.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I was naturally outraged at this appalling pollution of one of the worlds most beautiful areas, and voiced my opinion.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The Foreman Refuse Collector calmed my fears…’Just watch this mate” he said ”this stuff never reaches the ocean floor”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He was right.. As the sacks descended through the clear water, large
dark shapes approached at lightning speed and ate them, yep, these
critters would take a full sack of rubbish, tins, bottles, garbage, all
in one bite…There were hundreds of them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The Norfolk Island Refuse Disposal Unit, Marine Dept. (TNIRDUMD). Trash snacks a speciality.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
That would look good on a T shirt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Want some advice…never go swimming where you are considered to be the main course for a BIG fishes dinner.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-69457065907944921192018-10-16T02:12:00.001-07:002018-10-16T02:12:18.591-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
This is a short tale, but it sticks in my memory so maybe you will also enjoy it….</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
A
day out on the ‘USS NIMITZ’ ..as you will see from the picture this is
one Mother of a ship…one of the biggest tonnage vessels in the USA Navy.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<a href="http://mag.reelshowint.com/2010/10/03/a-bizarre-adventure-aboard-the-uss-nimitz/uss_nimitz997/" rel="attachment wp-att-1639"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-1639" src="http://mag.reelshowint.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/USS_Nimitz997.jpg" height="187" style="cursor: move;" title="USS_Nimitz997" width="250" /></a></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
I
was sent down to Naples in Italy with a crew to do a short documentary
on this naval titan as it set off on a patrol around the Gulf of
Libya…in those days the Libyan state, controlled by Col Ghaddafi, who
was not considered to be a friend of the Western world and it was
constantly monitored by Allied navies.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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After an
eventful night in Naples..(Another story) we were picked up at the
dockside and transferred to the Nimitz which was moored out in the bay.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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Once
on board we were shown to our quarters and invited to the Officers mess
to meet our press liaison Officer. We all enjoyed our welcoming drink
of a cola.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Yep.. all USA Navy vessels are dry. .no
alcohol whatsoever, ever, nada, zilch.. this was a three day trip but it
already stretched out ahead of my near alcoholic crew like a lifetimes
sentence.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
OK, So, parched, alcohol free and already
showing anxiety levels akin to those who go cold turkey on any addiction
we set off on a filmic tour of this leviathan of the waves.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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IT IS BLOODY BIG.</div>
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A
one point I was able to stand at what can only be described as a
crossroad of gangways, one in each direction. they all dwindled off into
the distance for what seemed like hundreds of bulkhead doors.</div>
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Then there was the storage and engineering deck.</div>
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This
is immediately below the flight deck, its like several football fields
joined together and it is stuffed full of aircraft, of all shapes and
sizes but mainly fighter attack planes as one would expect, but the
thing that really amazed me was the number of engineers who live down
there, it seemed like thousands of them, all beavering away on engines
and broken bits.</div>
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When we talked to some of these men
they all said they had never been on the flight deck, they were on board
for the two year mission and their aim was to work, pump iron in the
vast gymnasium, eat, pass exams, eat some more, pump more iron and SAVE
MONEY…these were serious people..and they had a lot to be serious about.</div>
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On
our mission there had been a dog fight with a couple of Ghaddafi’s Migs
out over the Gulf and both of them had been brought down. </div>
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Time
for a modest celebration in the Officers mess, modest it certainly was
as we downed copious amounts of Coca Cola, but for these steely eyed Top
Gun boys it could have been the best champagne or beer in the world.</div>
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The
operation of Jets taking off and landing seemed to be a 24/7 task as
jet after jet catapulted off the flight deck and the incoming hit the
deck with a thump and were then taken down to the maintenance deck for a
mechanics rub down.</div>
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We met and interviewed the
Captain of the vessel, this man was a USA Hero going back to the Vietnam
war, it was reputed that he had been shot down on two occasions behind
enemy lines and fought his way back with just a small hand gun, a tough
cookie indeed, if it were me then one time being shot down would have
sufficed.</div>
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The interview was arranged to be filmed on the flight control deck, the Captains Bridge, that’s the tall spiky tower in the pic.</div>
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All was set up, the skipper arrived and we began, except we couldn’t..</div>
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Every
time we started the interview the sound man would shout “Cut”…he had a
problem with his recording machine, in those days it was a Nagra, A
state of the art recorder and a reel to reel ,very reliable, but this
one would only turn round in short bursts of a couple of seconds. It
didn’t take long to work out that the signal from the large rotating
radar dish, just above our heads was sending out such a strong magnetic
field that it actually stopped the recorder from working.</div>
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We
quickly found another venue for our chat but it did give me food for
thought that if the signal was that strong it could stop the recorder
…what was it doing to the personnel who spent hours working on that deck
every day…just a thought.. They all seemed quite normal..</div>
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OK..we
did the usual documentary stuff for a few days , nice pics of the
aircraft taking off and landing, some little escapades and near
accidents but it all went relatively smoothly.</div>
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And then came the day of our departure.</div>
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The
ship can stay at sea for over two years without re-fuelling and
personnel rarely got to go on shore leave but for those in an emergency
they can be flown off.</div>
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Not many volunteered.</div>
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At the appointed hour my crew assembled at the detailed departure point on the flight deck.</div>
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All
equipment boxes securely fastened and stacked neatly, Navy style.. Then
I looked around the deck. It was completely stuffed with fighter
planes, row upon row of them, dozens of them, it was all you could see..</div>
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What I couldn’t see was a flight deck for my plane to trundle along to take off.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And where was our transport plane. .nowhere in sight.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then
a huge hole in the flight deck opened up and like the Phoenix from the
ashes our twin prop driven aircraft arose. Its wings were folded up like
a broken bird. They were soon flattened out and now it looked as though
it was capable of flight…except.. there was no runway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then it dawned on me.</div>
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These lunatics were actually going to catapult us off the deck.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And we were lunatics for agreeing to it…not that we were ever asked.</div>
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They were really going to sling us off the very short flight deck on a catapult..</div>
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Most people today have flown, the plane taxis to the end of a VERY LONG RUNWAY..</div>
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They
then run up the engines to high revs and start rolling down several
hundred yards of concrete runway. .at a certain speed lift is achieved
and the aircraft powers serenely into the blue yonder..</div>
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As
aircraft went, ours was quite small, but it was much larger than any of
the fighter planes that we had filmed taking off, these massively
powerful war planes had been hooked up to the sling. Run their engines
up to max power permitted, held back on their brakes and when ready the
deck man would give a signal to both pilot and the catapult man and the
combined forces of engine and catapult would throw the plane into the
sky, an awesome operation.</div>
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Best seen from afar as a spectator.</div>
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Like
sheep unto the slaughter my crew were herded across the deck and
quickly kitted out in flight survival jackets, flight helmets, goggles.</div>
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Then
we were boarded on the rear of the plane, the seats were all facing the
tailgate ..we were told to take a brace position on take off and we
did. The gear was stowed. The door was locked and now there was no
escape.</div>
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The plane was trundled over to the end of the catapult section and attached.</div>
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Looking out of the very small window I noticed we had attracted quite a crowd of onlookers.</div>
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Dozens
of Navy folk were standing around peering at us, thumbs up signs etc
were in abundance. I had the feeling that I had suddenly been invited to
go into a big stone circular ring with some hungry lions licking heir
lips at the other end.</div>
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I watched through the small
window at the deck control man who I had filmed many times over the last
few days giving his usual signals to the pilot, it normally consisted
of spinning his index finger at ever growing speeds.</div>
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This
digital movement was copied on board the plane by the engines being
revved to ear splitting level, the plane was threatening to tear itself
apart as the engines reached maximum revs and then came the
executioners moment. </div>
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The deckman stopped his murderous
spinning and pointed forward with what I thought was a flamboyant
gesture .At that moment I hated that man.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I had no
time to dwell on how I wanted to kill him as I was being propelled into
the air at a limb wrenching speed ..and suddenly we were airborne, we
soared away from the deck which I could see rapidly dwindling in the
small window..</div>
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Brilliant…no doubt this was an exhilarating moment.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And then we stopped flying…</div>
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<br /></div>
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Apparently this is normal. .But I didn’t know it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As
we went rapidly down towards the ocean the aircraft made a valiant
attempt to reach airspeed, it transpired that the catapult actually
throws the plane off the deck at a much higher speed than the plane can
fly at and it really just starts to fall into the sea.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The
screeching from the engines was now overwhelming and the plane appeared
to resemble a million rivets flying in loose formation.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The
glistening ocean was fast approaching and I made all of my prayers, in
Urdu, Hebrew, Christian , Rastafarian and all of the rest…this was it,
the end. The Big End…it was just a few hundred feet away and arriving
quickly.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Bye Bye life, Sex, Boozing, Watching Footie,
and then as we were about to impact we started to lift.. we were
actually flying… we seemed to just skim over the top before we began a
stately ascent to a safer altitude.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now it became clear
to me why all those big body building, gluttonous, money saving
mechanics never left the ship on its two year cruise.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This was the only way off. </div>
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<br /></div>
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They should all retire as rich men..</div>
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<br /></div>
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Two short footnotes to this story.</div>
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The
Cargo master who had flown with us told me they had lost two of these
aircraft recently and it always drew a good audience of ghouls on the
Nimitz to see if we could make it. He happily confessed that he had a
death wish… Thanks fellas.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We were landed at an airbase
on an Italian island, Sicily I think, and we were transported to our
hotel by a Navy driver who had a big blue bus.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On the way into the town, in the local rush hour we were struck a number of times by other vehicles.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Our
driver seemed completely unfazed, I asked him why. He said “Its always
like this, none of these guys have ever learned how to drive, they have
been driving like this FOR SEVERAL HUNDRED YEARS and aint got the hang
of the motor car yet”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I guess he didn’t graduate with a major in history from his high school..</div>
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<br /></div>
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Still, as usual ..it was a pleasure to have completed another little adventure with the American Forces.</div>
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</h3>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-71819249378882880922018-10-13T06:48:00.003-07:002018-10-13T06:48:55.793-07:00<div class="entry-meta" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
by <span class="entry-author" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="entry-author-link" href="http://mag.reelshowint.com/author/richard-dodd/" itemprop="url" rel="author"><span class="entry-author-name" itemprop="name">Richard Dodd</span></a></span> </div>
</div>
<div class="entry-content" itemprop="text" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Some
time in the eighties I was working in California and shooting a
documentary on suicides from The Golden Gate Bridge which crosses the
bay at the entrance to San Francisco Harbour</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The bridge is a massive structure, A beautiful elegant design .The
broad, sixlane, roadway across is supported by thick metal wires which
are held at either end by steel towers. The bridge is one of the most
photographed man made constructions in the world. It is also very high
off the surface of the water.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
If you jump off this bridge then the chances of survival are
extremely slim. If the fall into the water doesn’t kill you then the
damage sustained by the body will render you incapable of swimming in
the strong currents and then there are the sharks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Alcatraz, the infamous high security prison is built on an island in
the bay and was selected because of the high risk escape
procedure..basically..after you evade the heavy duty guard system and
then make it out of your cell block, climb the prison wall and then get
down the other side ..all you had to do was swim to freedom. I am
unaware of anyone escaping from Alcatraz and sending a post card back
from anywhere in the world to announce their new found liberty.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
That is why the bridge is a magnet to would be suicides; there are so
many attempts that the bridge authorities have a “Jumper” watch
situated at either end of the span. These people scan the pedestrians on
the bridge constantly and are quick off the mark to foil an attempt
when they see a likely customer. Apparently there are tell tale signs
that someone is about to take the short flight to oblivion..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And that is why I was there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Except on this particular day I wasn’t walking across the bridge, I
was about a hundred or so metres off it dangling outside a new Bell Jet
Ranger helicopter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The presenter of the programme was supposed to walk along the bridge,
in a casual manner, the way presenters do, and talk to the camera,
giving as many relevant facts as possible in a conversational way, as
they do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The cue for the presenter to start talking was when a distinctive
coloured car, driven by a production team member, drove past him, he
would look up to the chopper and begin the spiel as he continued to
stroll along .</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
These plans always work brilliantly on paper.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
For the logistics enthusiasts out there this is how it was planned</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
My camera team would drive from the centre of San Francisco to the
International airport about twenty miles or so east of he bridge where
we would rig the camera onto a Tyler Mount fitted to the helicopter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The Tyler mount is a rig that is fitted inside the aircraft and it
works on a balance system. A series of weights are moved along a large
metal arm that curves over the cameraman and the camera is used as a
counterweight .This system allows for any size camera to be fItted. I am
sure they are infinitely more sophisticated these days but the gyro or
steadying system was not too clever and the cameraman had to put a lot
of physical effort into keeping the camera steady during a take.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The mount takes up a lot of space and the rear seats have to come out
plus the passenger door comes off. In effect the cameraman has to sit
almost outside of the aircraft</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The security harness for the cameraman is standard five pin fitting
into a centre locking device. The restraining straps are one over each
shoulder, two around the waist and one from the floor up between the
legs The lock pins can all be released by one quick twist of the centre
lock. More on this later.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Radio comms are fitted , one for me to the pilot and an extra one for communication to the bridge team.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Are you still with me…good. keep going.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The presenter is fitted with a radio mike. The director/producer is
fitted with a radio mike..the sound recordist is dressed to look like a
tourist with a back pack and a funny hat to hide his headphones .These
three will be posing as sightseers near the presenter and within range
of his transmitter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The car driver is fitted with a radio. The “Jumper” teams are brought
in a and briefed.. We have the permission of the bridge authorities,
the radio frequencies have been cleared with the various authorities. We
all know what we are doing and when.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ok, climb aboard the chopper, a brand new Bell Jet Ranger, very nice.
And off we zoom, a low swoop over Alcatraz and then to position on the
west/seaward side of the bridge.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The brief is for me to follow our marked car, a white one, along the
bridge and as it gets to the presenter he will start talking and we
slowly hover and crab across until he is finished, then we pull back on
the lens and the chopper moves higher and further away to reveal the
truly stunning sight of the Golden Gate Bridge with SF in the
background.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
What could go wrong?..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Everybody is in position, all the sound checks are done, its “Go Go” time</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Nobody briefed Mother Nature, or the ten or twelve owners of white
cars who all decide to cross the bridge at the same time.Or the twenty
or so Japanese tourists who seemed attracted to a strange man, our
presenter, who seemed to be having a chat with a man in a helicopter and
then they seemed to be obliged to wave at.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Take two.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
This meant that the white car had to go across the bridge, off at the
next turnoff and then back across the bridge through the one way
approach system and take up position again.This took about twenty
minutes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Stay with it</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The bridge is so large that it creates its own micro weather
situation. No matter how calm it appears there is always a strong wind
roaring around the towers. This makes a hovering helicopter a very
unsteady filming platform.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Take two: The presenter fluffs his lines.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Take three: A strong gust of wind blows the chopper badly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Take four: I follow the wrong white car.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And so it goes on and every take is twenty minutes to set up again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
We began to run out of fuel and the pilot decided to go and refill,
at the airport. In the light of what was to happen it was a divine and
inspired decision. The trips and refuelling would take an hour or so.
Off we went.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
After the refuel we were ready to get airborne again. The pilot
checked with the control tower and we were given permission to overfly
the very end of the runway between passenger jets landing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
This is at The San Francisco International Airport, there are a lot
of jets landing there all the time, they seemed to be precisely stacked
up in the sky, exactly the same distance apart and all lined up on the
approach beacons. The end of the runway juts out into the bay. Very busy
place and very impressive.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A jet lands and off we go from our hover position, we have just a short space of time to clear the approach.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And then it happens.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
At about two hundred feet above the threshold lines the Gyro Assist went AWOL.It broke.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In the space of a couple of seconds and from my perch on the side of
the chopper I saw the sky, runway, bay water, spinning horizon and then
went through it all again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In my ear the pilot was yelling instructions to the tower or his God, and we were plummeting towards the concrete.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Which we hit..very hard.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Bits were flying in all directions and I was aware of pushing the
Tyler mount off my chest where it had rammed on impact and flicking the
release button on the harness. One last push at the Tyler and I leapt
onto the tarmac.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The chopper was on its side, the rotor had screamed to a halt and I
legged it to the side to jump down into the jumble of massive concrete
blocks that form the base for the runway.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The pilot was there before me..You cant beat military training..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The conversation was a little stilted for a few moments as we took stock of our new situation</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
We were both unharmed but in a slight state of shock.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The chopper seemed to be seriously damaged and on its side.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
All of the neatly lined up aircraft with hundreds of passenger on
board were now on their way somewhere else, they were peeling off for
destinations unplanned.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
My radio went off, it was the Producer..”Where the fuck are you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I quickly briefed him on our new situation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He never asked if we were ok, all he said was “Get another chopper and get back out here”…Honestly..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
What is it about producers?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I relayed his request to the pilot who simply said “When God tells you to sit on the ground you sit on the fucking ground”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It occurred to me that if we had not done so many takes then the
chopper might have been over open water and I don’t think we would have
survived the drop from the much greater height that we were filming
from. An inspired decision by the pilot to refuel when he did, just a
minute or so either side and ..hey ..who knows..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><span style="text-decoration: underline;">PART TWO</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ok we had survived the crash, screwed up the filming and also screwed
up the travel plans of hundreds of airline passengers and now we were
waiting for the rescue wagons to appear. We talked, just to calm our
nerves</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I asked the pilot who was approximately my age how he got into the
flying business, it had always appeared attractive to me as an
alternative career.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
His story had me mesmerised.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
During the Vietnam War he had been conscripted into the Military,
being a bright lad he had been sent onto a flying course and finished up
training to fly helicopters.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
(For a book on this subject read “Chickenhawks” by Robert Mason)..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Completed training and off he went to war.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
They gave him a gunship. Probably an AH1 Cobra, fitted with twin Cannons. A flying killing machine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“I was God” he said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“At twenty one I had the power of life and death. This was Apocalypse Now for real”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He went on to describe how he and his Squadron of Cobras would set
off on raids that completely destroyed hundreds of villages, shot up
fishing boats, blasted anything that moved on the ground that could
conceivably be considered to be the enemy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
It was a fantastic feeling. The Vietcong were virtually defenceless
against these airborne attacks and so the young pilots felt all powerful
and not in a great deal of danger.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“It was a great life, full of excitement, I had this huge powerful
beast that could rip up a village in seconds, two passes with the
cannons on full blast and it was no more, wonderful”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Until one day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He was on patrol as usual and he came across a very small village, he
decided to take a closer look and as he approached a group of villagers
dashed out of one of the flimsy grass huts and began to run along a
jungle path.. He followed them, assessed the situation as much as he
could through the jungle canopy as he whizzed past, and decided they
were not good people. Why would they be running etc.. He gave them a
burst of cannon, Damn, missed, He went round again, another burst of
cannon, he destroyed a number of trees and a couple of bamboo thickets
but missed the runners, he went round again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
There they were, still on the path through the jungle but they had
stopped and were looking at him as he approached for the kill. They
could not run any further, dense bamboo and forest on all sides, all
five of them were exhausted.. Mum, Dad, and their three little kids.</div>
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“It was like a bolt of lightning, I suddenly realised what I was doing. I was a killer of innocents and enjoying it”</div>
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He disengaged his attack, flew straight back to his base and refused to fly gunships any more.</div>
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They put him on Medivac duties…and that’s another story..</div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-49172450916247353112018-10-11T06:20:00.001-07:002018-10-11T06:20:38.902-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
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Many years ago I was filming a documentary on Air Sea Rescue operations at a Base in Scotland. The programme was eventually shown on ITV. </div>
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We did mock runs with the helicopters and fast rescue boats atc, and everything was going along quite well until a Royal Navy Officer suggested I should do the bird’s eye view of a rescue operation.</div>
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In this case he specifically meant the view a downed pilot would have as his rescuers, in the form of a helicopter and crew, would swoop across the ocean and pluck him from the jaws of certain death. </div>
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After he had been forced to ditch into the sea.</div>
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A good idea, very visual..</div>
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The Navy at that time were very pleased about a new pilot survival suit they had with a newly developed rescue beacon that was much more powerful and detectable than anything they had previously.</div>
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It gets better. The chances of a rescue for a downed pilot wearing this suit were almost 100%</div>
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Reassured, off I trot like the sacrificial lamb to get kitted out in one of these survival suits and some basic survival techniques where it was explained to me that the master plan would be to drop me off in the Atlantic Ocean somewhere off the coast of North Scotland.</div>
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The rescue services would then be alerted that there was a pilot down and be given a rough search area. With approximate co-ordinates..an absolute doddle…they said..</div>
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So far so good..</div>
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What a fool..</div>
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So…Kitted out with a natty flying suit and a waterproof camera I am whisked away to a remote spot on the globe and dumped into the ocean…The helicopter hovered for a few minutes to make sure I was ok and then off they went back to their warm officers mess for tea and biscuits no doubt..</div>
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Meanwhile I am now bobbing about ..quite comfy and absolutely safe in the knowledge that in a few minutes ..maybe thirty at the outside, I would be located and saved..with some good footage of the operation…back in time for the bar opening..</div>
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The sea began to get a little choppy.</div>
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The survival suit was beginning to chafe a little as I was tossed about on the surface.</div>
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After a couple of hours I was violently seasick.</div>
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After four hours I began to get a little concerned.</div>
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My rescuers were nowhere to be seen.</div>
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But wait..That is a Nimrod aircraft at zero level about five mles away..It seemed to be doing criss cross patterns across the sea.</div>
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Occasionally as I rose to the top of a swell I could also spot a couple of helicopters in the same area.</div>
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Now I was cold, had nothing left to vomit and hey…the sun was about to set..</div>
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The massive golden ball was hanging just above the horizon and glinting across the water .</div>
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This is it I thought. How many hours did that instructor say the survival time was. How many hours had passed and how many were left.</div>
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Some business men on a flight from Northern Ireland were crossing over to Scotland for a meeting. </div>
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They were in a hurry and their chopper was flying low. They went straight over the top of me, continued for a couple of miles and then banked around for a closer look.</div>
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The chopper circled, the pilot waved and then they went on their way.</div>
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Within a few minutes my rescuers arrived. The winchman dropped in and looped me up.I got great footage and they were very embarrassed.</div>
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It turned out that the superdooper rescue beacon had “Malfunctioned” and they thought I was on my way to Nova Scotia or somewhere equally exciting.</div>
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The Navy were almost about to announce that they had just killed a film cameraman.</div>
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But they didn’t.</div>
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Moral of the story…There isn’t one really..these things just happen but don’t take the experts word as gospel every time and carry a back up beacon..or get a job as an accountant.<span class="nr_text"><span class="nr_post_title"> </span></span><span class="nr_text"><span class="nr_post_title"> </span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-18661102075574222422018-09-29T06:18:00.003-07:002018-09-29T06:18:35.866-07:00Rape Rape..<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #d52a33; font-family: Georgia,Utopia,"Palatino Linotype",Palatino,serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; position: relative; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
RAPE RAPE...
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Disturbing Title right....<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Ponder on this small tale..it is a true one and happened to me.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Some years ago I was living in a very upmarket apartment block in the centre of fashionable Chelsea, London.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
At that time I was shooting a very popular TV show...the Studios were a tube ride from my nearest tube station which was at the South Kensington Underground and the journey took about 45 minutes.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
As usual the Production company had hired a run down warehouse,which had been abandoned for several years and was in a filthy dilapidated state..the sort of place where you didn't want to touch anything.Accordingly the entire crew and myself wore really tough old clothes,torn jeans, boots, baseball caps..in case the everpresent pigeons in the rafters decided to relieve themselves...and really tough old jackets..... we looked like a bunch of hobos .<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
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Ok..you have that image...let us move on..The working hours were from 8am until 7pm and we were shooting in the winter months, so when I was finally released I would walk across to the Tube station in the dark and of course it was dark when I exited at my station in town.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Walking home in that part of London was always a pleasure..Elegant white painted terraces..home to the privileged and wealthy..and me.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
The entrance to my apartment block was through some large glass doors and then to get to the elevators there was a thirty yard walk.As I crossed the wide pavement and approached the front door a woman who I would have placed in her late fifties,early sixties approached the same door from the other direction and we both arrived at the same time.I held up my keys and offered to open the door for her...she completely ignored me and opened the door,went in and closed the door behind her.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
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Maybe she was having a bad day...that's fine..I then opened the door and went into the long hallway to reach the elevators...she was waiting halfway down the corridor and stood facing me<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Her.."Do you live here"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Me.."Yes"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Her "I don't know you"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Me.."Thats ok,I don't know you either"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
We both walked to the elevators as she continued her questioning.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Her.."Which flat are you in"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Me...holding up my keys.."I live on the 7th floor"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Her.."But which flat...what number"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
I pressed the button for the elevator which was showing to be on the top floor...the indicator showed it had begunits journey.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Her.."I don't think you live her at all"<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
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At this stage she began to become rather agitated and backed away from me and the elevator and pushed herself into a corner where she slid to the floor and then burst into screaming at the top of her voice..."Rape..Rape he is raping me..help help" <br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
The loud shouting continued and she began to pull at her clothes,ripping her blouse out of her skirt as she now laid down on the floor.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
So here I was..a nutty distraught woman yelling rape and murder..the lift was approaching and was just a couple of floors away.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Then the horror of it hit me...If the lift had anyone in it and the doors opened on this scene..or if other residents came through the front door..what would they see..a rather scruffy man in very rough clothes..a middle class woman down on the floor and screaming RAPE....what would they have thought..<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
The police would no doubt have been called.and in all probability I would have been arrested..taken to a police station and questioned....no doubt kept in overnight.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
My non arrival at the studios and the reason why would have soon been broadcast around the very small business in London and even if I could prove my innocence the smelll would linger..It would have been almost impossible to work in the industry again...and I was completely innovcent...what would you have thought if you had been in the lift or walked through the front door.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Anyway the lift arrived...thank heaven it was empty....no one in it...the woman was still screaming and her screams continued to echo all the way up the lift shaft where I leapt out on the 7th floor and ran to my apartment.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
That woman could have completely ruined me.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
I continued to live there for a long time and never saw her again.<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
Could make a nice small Budget Horror movie<br style="line-height: 18.2px; position: static; width: auto;" />
And all true.
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<span itemprop="name" style="color: #d52a33; text-decoration: none;">Chelsy Swann</span>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-45877655841103795892018-07-17T05:00:00.001-07:002018-07-17T05:00:32.539-07:00Ultra tidy..or a compulsive, obsessive behaviour disorder..Just a funny one...may appeal to those with borderline COBD..<br />
Some years ago we lived in a very fashionable district of London, in a beautiful two bedroom apartment on Brompton Road.<br />
At the time we ran two vehicles..a rather smart Range Rover and a slightly careworn Izuzu Trooper.I loved driving the Trooper, still have it here in Italy.<br />
Whilst we both love cars neither one of us is too keen about cleaning them or keeping them tidy.The Range Rover was the one I used for work and kept reasonably tidy, the Troop was a runaround..and completely scruffy.music cassettes littered every l<br />
flat surface, the floor, back and front, discarded food packages, old plastic bottles, newspapers..you name it and it was abandoned to its fate in that vehicle. It was a total tip.<br />
We parked on the street as most Londoners do and usually in front of the apartment block on that very busy road. Imagine our surprise and a a level of consternation when one Saturday morning we went out to the car to find it had been broken into..nothing smashed, just a side window had been pushed forward and allowed access...but the most astonishing thing was...all of the cassettes were in a neat pile on the dashboard, the newspapers were all folded and stacked neatly on the back seat, the other discarded rubbish had been collected and placed in plastic bags, the dash had been wiped of all its historic dust collections...and the car looked almost new.<br />
Never found out who did the clean up job but we reckon it was some one with the above COBD.<br />
It would be great if they lived nearby.chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-12990475439771745032018-07-08T01:55:00.001-07:002018-07-08T01:55:39.998-07:00English Tuition by skypeFor those of you who wish to learn English by skype please go to...www.ielts-caetuition.com<br />
<br />
It is an excellent organisation run by My wife and co writer..Mary Lou Clarke <br />
<br />
<br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-33085825267545691292018-05-26T05:51:00.001-07:002018-05-26T05:51:46.971-07:00Been trying to raise some interest amongst Literary agents over on Twitter...I tweeted a very brief cv, not much detail but it vaguely plots my movements after leaving school at fifteen..Steelworker..apprentice..Coal miner..deep seam colliery 1200 feet, seams at below 3feet.<br />
Labourer, Building site checker, camera shop assistant.,Newspaper darkroom technician, assistant cameraman in a news agency, BBC sound man ,and finally a Director of Photography with a great company which allowed me to travel the world and hone my skills in the Drama field...then I turned to writing...having read and filmed literally hundreds of drama scripts I finally turned my hand to writing novels..using my memories from travelling to exotic locations I try to inject some of those picturesque moments into the and keep the pace of films.<br />
Response so far...Zilch.<br />
But I will keep on trying because I know that if these books hit bookstore shelves then they will fly.<br />
Wish me luck.<br />
<br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-36418173917524603002018-02-16T06:12:00.000-08:002018-02-16T06:34:34.364-08:00Ther Fiddler ..available at Barnes and Noble bookstores.Dont forget this weekend.."The Fiddler" by RJ Dodd...now available in 600 Barnes and Noble bookstores on request,<br />
Follow the amazing adventures of a young violinist in 18th century Italy.<br />
A fantastic story that would make a fantastic movie..telling it like it was...the start of Rock and Roll..including the wild parties..sex and drugs....great music and the constant threat of death.chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-476048635785604101.post-18591612698492598742018-02-09T02:34:00.000-08:002018-02-09T02:34:04.729-08:00The FiddlerThe Fiddler by RJ Dodd (me) set in 18th century Italy..follows the wild adventures of a young musician in exciting and dangerous times.<br />
Now available on request at Barnes and Noble.<br />
<br />
get in there early to avoid the queue .<br />
<br />chelsyswann blogspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654684691426896568noreply@blogger.com0