Just been looking at the thread about pin-up pictures being banned in the RAF because of 'political correctness' pressure and it makes me mad. These polcorists seem to come out of the woodwork and I'll bet they're getting financed in one way or another by the taxpayer.

Who are these people, how come they've got so much time on their hands that they can engage in this activity.

Can we get at them in some way?

for everything funded by the taxpayer, the answer is obvious..

Stop paying tax!

If that means not working, then so be it!

Striking is the only way!

Celtish, fear not. The orders were issued, no doubt, by some brown-nosed shite and the Service has a way or dealing with them. It can be both funny and painful, and usually both.

Let me regale you with the Tale of Black Mac.

The Chief Instructor at the Central Air Traffic Control School at RAF Shawbury (in Swopshire) was one Wg Cmdr MacIntyre, a sod of the very old school of the sort that used to feature in Dickens. He was the most awful man who ruled with an iron fist, a vicious tongue and nary a smile ever creased his face. He was universally disliked and cared not a whit about it.

He had 'destiny' in his sights.

Two tales. First, his wife, a pretty German woman (no English Rose of the day - and there were lots back then - would have him) who was loyal even if misguided. One week running up to Battle of Britain Sunday, a few people had been 'volunteered' to go around the married patch and the base sections, selling small paper wings with little RAF roundels in them to raise money for the BoB charities. Helga was one of them.

Imagine for a moment hearing a knock at your door at dinner time, and opening it you are accosted by a thick German accent asking you to buy thingimebobs for the Battle of Britain ! "Ach. Zo, I yarm Frau Ving Commander MacIntyre. You like to buy ze vings, yah?".

Well if that didn't crack them up, the two guys who knocked five minutes later, selling tiny paper swaztikas did. "Unt for ze gallant losers, yah"?

The thing is, these two collected more than she did.

I know, a bit unfair on Helga, but.....

Story two.

When a chap was posted out (or in for that matter) he got a dinner put on for him in the Mess. When Black Mac was posted there was such a sigh of relief that a very special dinner was organised for him. Every Officer on the base attended as well as a huge number of visiting Controllers from all over the country, who were in the know that 'something' was to happen but not knowing what. The Mess was packed. The Dinner list enormous. Black mac was emormously proud that he could attract such a gathering.

Some chaps had a painting made for him as a going away present. Napoleon, astride a horse, hand in jacket - with Black Mac's face. They hid it behind a curtain on the wall behind the Top Table, where BM, as guest of honour was to sit.

A series of strings and pulleys led from the curtain, under the tables, to a chap at the far end of the room.

Black Mac rose to give his going away 'speech'. As he droned, the curtain slowly opened behind him. There was silence as they endured his talking about airways and near-misses and professionalism and tactical freedom for fighter pilots and then the place erupted.

Blokes were rolling on the floor as Mac, totally oblivious to the painting being slowly revealed, droned on in all seriousness. He became annoyed, scowled as he talked. His voice rose to challenge the gales of laughter. He shouted on, louder and even more forcefully. We were almost as hysterical as he was. He was defeated.

He became aware, what with all the pointing, and turned to look behind him. Talk about Black. It was like a Thunderstorm broke. He stormed here and there and strided out shouting outrage, berating chaps who could barely stand. The painting disappeared before he reurned.

For the next ten years, that painting appeared in every Mess he went to. And disappeared. And appeared, and so on.

He was never let to forget just what people thought of him.

He didn't improve.