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Re: "FLYING SAUCERS...AND THEIR EFFECT UPON URANUS"...

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  • queen_of_cryptic_cyphers
    Uncle Bernie, Wow! What an imagination you have. OR....too much of the bottle in ya. LOL Very funny piece (although I blushed in some parts) LOL Hugs, Gwennie
    Message 1 of 11 , Jul 31, 2007
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      Uncle Bernie,

      Wow! What an imagination you have. OR....too much of the bottle in
      ya. LOL

      Very funny piece (although I blushed in some parts) LOL

      Hugs,
      Gwennie

      --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "rede2rollbaby"
      <rede2rollbaby@...> wrote:
      >
      > "Flying Saucers…And Their Effect Upon Uranus".
      >
      > Was laying flat on my back, in a most tranquil repose,
      > in truth, drunk as the monkey, very near to comatose.
      > Anyway, I saw this saucer thingy, away up in the sky,
      > I thought, wake up old son…the washing up don't fly.
      >
      > Many's the time in the back blocks, out behind the pub,
      > I've seen pink Jumbos strollin', I'm givin' you the rub.
      > Been in the flamin' horrors, for half the week or more,
      > but pale pink monster saucers…never seen them before.
      >
      > Truckin' on down like lightnin', but without the crash,
      > bigger than a Jumbo Jet, 'cept saucers aren't so flash.
      > Look scarier if you're drunk, that's `the get out clause',
      > a hatch opened…and I bloody near had khaki drawers.
      >
      > Geezus, what I saw was ugly, and I've seen awful sights,
      > this was near as gruesome, as your Ma-In-Law in tights.
      > Whirring noise and rattles, then I saw the stairs appear,
      > and out trooped the mob that nigh to gave me diarrhoea.
      >
      > Reckon they were shielas…they had three boobs apiece,
      > shrieking and drooling, they spoke of `passion's release'.
      > Wide as they was high, huge and hairy, total uglies mate,
      > blood turned to freezing water, as one said, `consummate'.
      >
      > I'm not adverse to hanky- panky…like any flamin' bull,
      > But Gesszus mate, tell you now, you'd never get that full.
      > Can't have uglies breedin', and scarin' drunks old mate,
      > like droves of fleshy green dalaks, chanting `pro-create'.
      >
      > There I was flat out vulnerable, and hardly game to blink,
      > I grabbed a full O.P. bottle, thought I'd have a final drink.
      > Hands green and hairy, pulled the open bottle from my lips,
      > a motley crew devoured forty ounces, in rapid slurping sips.
      >
      > Then polished off the bottle as they swallowed it in chunks,
      > they gobbled, wobbled, stumbled, those shard eating drunks.
      > It wasn't top grade `Bundy', just a publicans blended brew,
      > but it put the cleaners through that three boob motley crew.
      >
      > I tell you mate I was relieved, the green mob lost all intent,
      > they crawled back up the stairway, their energies all spent.
      > The thingy took off sideways, then looped and barrel rolled,
      > bowels returned to normal…well mannered and controlled.
      >
      > That was the last I saw of that mob, cart wheeling in the sky,
      > I had no proof, nor souvenir, not one thing to remember by.
      > But there's a good bit, I wrote a book that made me famous,
      > a top seller, "Flying saucers, and their effect upon Uranus."
      >
      > ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
      > "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".
      >
    • Faye
      Must have been drinking 180 proof...LOL...that was so neat...I laught and had a good time reading it...WELL DONE!
      Message 2 of 11 , Aug 1 8:21 AM
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        Must have been drinking 180 proof...LOL...that was so neat...I laught
        and had a good time reading it...WELL DONE!
      • wings081
        Hi Bernie You ve placed me in a dilemma.I ve run out of suitable praise for your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and all. (even the
        Message 3 of 11 , Aug 1 10:39 AM
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          Hi Bernie
          You've placed me in a dilemma.I've run out of suitable praise for
          your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and all.
          (even the ladies have a little titter)

          My only recourse it would seem is to load my gun and fire a return
          shot.
          So here we go:

          Knew a chap like that Bern. Wop at my old station
          Few miles from Rangoon it was, in the Burmese nation
          Never knew him sober. He would drink until he fell
          Never saw him eating. Always missed the dinner bell

          He had a pet, a scorpion, black, ugly looking brute
          He'd lead it round the mess at night to see we others scoot
          A sting from that when rattled would give one awful pains
          Didn't seem to worry our Jock with his alcoholic veins

          And when it came my time to fly and Jock was on the list
          I knew that he was useless when he was `Brahms and Liszt'
          So I'd coerce another radio chap to join me in our crew
          No trouble there for Wop/ag's stick together just like glue

          This went on for a month or two but eventual came to a head
          When Jock couldn't make the toilet can and leaked into his bed
          "Enough" I cried, "you others can do cover for him as you please
          But it's time he visited the M.O. He's got the flaming DTs"

          Finally, a group of us spoke firmly and demanded: "Look here Jock
          If you don't mend your ways old sport, we'll carry you to the Doc."
          Perhaps he'd had a letter, with the greeting of `Dear John'
          That's no excuse for your mates to suffer being put upon.

          He finally was repatriated to dear old blighty's shore
          Never heard what his girl said when he met up at her door
          Bet she noticed a change from the day they kissed goodbye
          The drunken sot before her was quite a different guy

          Now I was fond of a jar or two of the good old amber nectar
          But my crew all knew and trusted me. I was not a base defector
          Calcutta, Hong Kong or Singapore, if I'd been liberal with the bottle.
          A good eight hours I would allow before my hand went on the throttle.

          Those good old days when we were young, on friends you could rely
          To back you up no matter what, when you took them to the sky
          No doubt the future will produce some men as those now gone
          To risk their lives to save us from the final Armageddon

          If on reading this old mate you utter loudly "Strewth"
          I assure you sir and Gwen my dear, it is the gospel truth.

          As always

          Wings












          --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "rede2rollbaby"
          <rede2rollbaby@...> wrote:
          >
          > "Flying Saucers…And Their Effect Upon Uranus".
          >
          > Was laying flat on my back, in a most tranquil repose,
          > in truth, drunk as the monkey, very near to comatose.
          > Anyway, I saw this saucer thingy, away up in the sky,
          > I thought, wake up old son…the washing up don't fly.
          >
          > Many's the time in the back blocks, out behind the pub,
          > I've seen pink Jumbos strollin', I'm givin' you the rub.
          > Been in the flamin' horrors, for half the week or more,
          > but pale pink monster saucers…never seen them before.
          >
          > Truckin' on down like lightnin', but without the crash,
          > bigger than a Jumbo Jet, 'cept saucers aren't so flash.
          > Look scarier if you're drunk, that's `the get out clause',
          > a hatch opened…and I bloody near had khaki drawers.
          >
          > Geezus, what I saw was ugly, and I've seen awful sights,
          > this was near as gruesome, as your Ma-In-Law in tights.
          > Whirring noise and rattles, then I saw the stairs appear,
          > and out trooped the mob that nigh to gave me diarrhoea.
          >
          > Reckon they were shielas…they had three boobs apiece,
          > shrieking and drooling, they spoke of `passion's release'.
          > Wide as they was high, huge and hairy, total uglies mate,
          > blood turned to freezing water, as one said, `consummate'.
          >
          > I'm not adverse to hanky- panky…like any flamin' bull,
          > But Gesszus mate, tell you now, you'd never get that full.
          > Can't have uglies breedin', and scarin' drunks old mate,
          > like droves of fleshy green dalaks, chanting `pro-create'.
          >
          > There I was flat out vulnerable, and hardly game to blink,
          > I grabbed a full O.P. bottle, thought I'd have a final drink.
          > Hands green and hairy, pulled the open bottle from my lips,
          > a motley crew devoured forty ounces, in rapid slurping sips.
          >
          > Then polished off the bottle as they swallowed it in chunks,
          > they gobbled, wobbled, stumbled, those shard eating drunks.
          > It wasn't top grade `Bundy', just a publicans blended brew,
          > but it put the cleaners through that three boob motley crew.
          >
          > I tell you mate I was relieved, the green mob lost all intent,
          > they crawled back up the stairway, their energies all spent.
          > The thingy took off sideways, then looped and barrel rolled,
          > bowels returned to normal…well mannered and controlled.
          >
          > That was the last I saw of that mob, cart wheeling in the sky,
          > I had no proof, nor souvenir, not one thing to remember by.
          > But there's a good bit, I wrote a book that made me famous,
          > a top seller, "Flying saucers, and their effect upon Uranus."
          >
          > ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
          > "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".
          >
        • rede2rollbaby
          G day Wings, and what an absolute bloody ripper response...funny thing about a lot of blokes involved with radio...they seem to acquire a tendency to too often
          Message 4 of 11 , Aug 1 1:59 PM
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            G'day Wings,
            and what an absolute bloody ripper response...funny thing
            about a lot of blokes involved with radio...they seem to acquire a
            tendency to too often become "Brahms and Liszt". Noticed its
            insidious development personally...takes a lifetime and dedication to
            control, you can't just cease operations over night for fear of
            withdrawal symptoms...

            'Course if you don't put the brakes on you wind up like
            "Robbo"...

            TWO SHOTS OF `WHITE LADY' IN A SCHOONER SIZED GLASS".
            [2oz of Methylated Spirits in a 15 oz. glass...wouldn't want to spill
            it by shaking].

            Ol' Robbo he dwells, in the firm grip of the grog,
            shakes in the morning, till the ` hair of the dog'.
            Suffers delirium tremens, of an order first class,
            strictly remedial `Metho', imbibed till they pass.

            His optics limpid pools, all bright pillar box red,
            twin windows for tormentors, adrift in his head.
            Every goblin wears hobnails, each beats a drum,
            to a wild frenzied rhythm, the by-product of rum.

            His tongue a furred grey, from grog residue vile,
            stomach, of action uncertain, concerning its bile.
            Not game to chance coughing lest fate be unkind,
            any breaking of wind, the last thing on his mind.

            Sunlight like some arc-lamp, blazes into his brain,
            "more booze", scream the goblins, "that eases pain".
            He violently shakes, tightly clenches, all nether parts,
            closes eyes and then prays, lest unkind motion starts.

            Every morning such penance, Ol' Robbo must give,
            goblins questionable in mercy…they let Robbie live!
            Let live and let suffer, and yet old Bob loves the grog.
            staggers home for the sessions, then sleeps like a log.

            So Ol' Robbo he dwells, in the firm grip of the grog,
            shakes every morning, before that ` hair of the dog'.
            Each day has delirium tremens, of order first class,
            shakes in dread tension, till those worst hours pass.

            ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva. 07.
            _________________
            "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".

            GOODONYA OLD MATE...may we always find something to grin about no
            matter what fate throws our way...
            Catch you down the track,
            Bernie...

            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "wings081" <wings081@...> wrote:
            >
            > Hi Bernie
            > You've placed me in a dilemma.I've run out of suitable praise for
            > your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and
            all.
            > (even the ladies have a little titter)
            >
            > My only recourse it would seem is to load my gun and fire a return
            > shot.
            > So here we go:
            >
            > Knew a chap like that Bern. Wop at my old station
            > Few miles from Rangoon it was, in the Burmese nation
            > Never knew him sober. He would drink until he fell
            > Never saw him eating. Always missed the dinner bell...
            >
            >
            > And when it came my time to fly and Jock was on the list
            > I knew that he was useless when he was `Brahms and Liszt'...

            >> >
            >
          • wings081
            Hi Bernie Re; 2oz of Meths in a 15oz glass Did you know that section 26 of the revenue act 1889 prohibits the sale of Methylated spirits between 10pm on a
            Message 5 of 11 , Aug 1 3:49 PM
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              Hi Bernie

              Re; "2oz of Meths in a 15oz glass"

              Did you know that section 26 of the revenue act 1889 prohibits the
              sale of Methylated spirits between 10pm on a Saturday night and 8am
              the following Monday morning.
              I believe that law is still on the statute books although the 1994
              Sunday Trading Act made that obsolete when it stated shops in England
              and Wales could trade on Sundays.(don't know about Scotland.Anyway
              they are a law unto themselves).
              The term for Meths is now referred to as denatured alcohol.

              I wonder if any members had the same experience as me with Methylated
              Spirit: If as kids we came home from school with an infestation of
              head lice,our Dad would dab our heads with meths, followed by a good
              shampoo using a soap with the trade name Durbac,(I believe it had a
              carbolic base)following this Mum would use the nit comb to drag out
              those eggs which had survived.

              Didn't worry us too much and we managed to weather the storms of
              childhood with measles,chicken pox,mumps and all the other spotty
              complaints.

              As always

              Wings

              --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "rede2rollbaby"
              <rede2rollbaby@...> wrote:
              >
              > G'day Wings,
              > and what an absolute bloody ripper response...funny
              thing
              > about a lot of blokes involved with radio...they seem to acquire a
              > tendency to too often become "Brahms and Liszt". Noticed its
              > insidious development personally...takes a lifetime and dedication
              to
              > control, you can't just cease operations over night for fear of
              > withdrawal symptoms...
              >
              > 'Course if you don't put the brakes on you wind up like
              > "Robbo"...
              >
              > TWO SHOTS OF `WHITE LADY' IN A SCHOONER SIZED GLASS".
              > [2oz of Methylated Spirits in a 15 oz. glass...wouldn't want to
              spill
              > it by shaking].
              >
              > Ol' Robbo he dwells, in the firm grip of the grog,
              > shakes in the morning, till the ` hair of the dog'.
              > Suffers delirium tremens, of an order first class,
              > strictly remedial `Metho', imbibed till they pass.
              >
              > His optics limpid pools, all bright pillar box red,
              > twin windows for tormentors, adrift in his head.
              > Every goblin wears hobnails, each beats a drum,
              > to a wild frenzied rhythm, the by-product of rum.
              >
              > His tongue a furred grey, from grog residue vile,
              > stomach, of action uncertain, concerning its bile.
              > Not game to chance coughing lest fate be unkind,
              > any breaking of wind, the last thing on his mind.
              >
              > Sunlight like some arc-lamp, blazes into his brain,
              > "more booze", scream the goblins, "that eases pain".
              > He violently shakes, tightly clenches, all nether parts,
              > closes eyes and then prays, lest unkind motion starts.
              >
              > Every morning such penance, Ol' Robbo must give,
              > goblins questionable in mercy…they let Robbie live!
              > Let live and let suffer, and yet old Bob loves the grog.
              > staggers home for the sessions, then sleeps like a log.
              >
              > So Ol' Robbo he dwells, in the firm grip of the grog,
              > shakes every morning, before that ` hair of the dog'.
              > Each day has delirium tremens, of order first class,
              > shakes in dread tension, till those worst hours pass.
              >
              > ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva. 07.
              > _________________
              > "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".
              >
              > GOODONYA OLD MATE...may we always find something to grin about no
              > matter what fate throws our way...
              > Catch you down the track,
              > Bernie...
              >
              > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "wings081" <wings081@> wrote:
              > >
              > > Hi Bernie
              > > You've placed me in a dilemma.I've run out of suitable praise for
              > > your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and
              > all.
              > > (even the ladies have a little titter)
              > >
              > > My only recourse it would seem is to load my gun and fire a
              return
              > > shot.
              > > So here we go:
              > >
              > > Knew a chap like that Bern. Wop at my old station
              > > Few miles from Rangoon it was, in the Burmese nation
              > > Never knew him sober. He would drink until he fell
              > > Never saw him eating. Always missed the dinner bell...
              > >
              > >
              > > And when it came my time to fly and Jock was on the list
              > > I knew that he was useless when he was `Brahms and Liszt'...
              >
              > >> >
              > >
              >
            • queen_of_cryptic_cyphers
              Well Dearest Wings Sir, Surely I must take off my hat to you with a bow. (Or is it a curtsy for us lasses. But without skirts that is difficult). LOL you two!
              Message 6 of 11 , Aug 3 4:08 PM
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                Well Dearest Wings Sir,

                Surely I must take off my hat to you with a bow. (Or is it a curtsy
                for us lasses. But without skirts that is difficult).

                LOL you two!

                Hugs,
                Gwen

                --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "wings081" <wings081@...> wrote:
                >
                > Hi Bernie
                > You've placed me in a dilemma.I've run out of suitable praise for
                > your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and
                all.
                > (even the ladies have a little titter)
                >
                > My only recourse it would seem is to load my gun and fire a return
                > shot.
                > So here we go:
                >
                > Knew a chap like that Bern. Wop at my old station
                > Few miles from Rangoon it was, in the Burmese nation
                > Never knew him sober. He would drink until he fell
                > Never saw him eating. Always missed the dinner bell
                >
                > He had a pet, a scorpion, black, ugly looking brute
                > He'd lead it round the mess at night to see we others scoot
                > A sting from that when rattled would give one awful pains
                > Didn't seem to worry our Jock with his alcoholic veins
                >
                > And when it came my time to fly and Jock was on the list
                > I knew that he was useless when he was `Brahms and Liszt'
                > So I'd coerce another radio chap to join me in our crew
                > No trouble there for Wop/ag's stick together just like glue
                >
                > This went on for a month or two but eventual came to a head
                > When Jock couldn't make the toilet can and leaked into his bed
                > "Enough" I cried, "you others can do cover for him as you please
                > But it's time he visited the M.O. He's got the flaming DTs"
                >
                > Finally, a group of us spoke firmly and demanded: "Look here Jock
                > If you don't mend your ways old sport, we'll carry you to the Doc."
                > Perhaps he'd had a letter, with the greeting of `Dear John'
                > That's no excuse for your mates to suffer being put upon.
                >
                > He finally was repatriated to dear old blighty's shore
                > Never heard what his girl said when he met up at her door
                > Bet she noticed a change from the day they kissed goodbye
                > The drunken sot before her was quite a different guy
                >
                > Now I was fond of a jar or two of the good old amber nectar
                > But my crew all knew and trusted me. I was not a base defector
                > Calcutta, Hong Kong or Singapore, if I'd been liberal with the
                bottle.
                > A good eight hours I would allow before my hand went on the
                throttle.
                >
                > Those good old days when we were young, on friends you could rely
                > To back you up no matter what, when you took them to the sky
                > No doubt the future will produce some men as those now gone
                > To risk their lives to save us from the final Armageddon
                >
                > If on reading this old mate you utter loudly "Strewth"
                > I assure you sir and Gwen my dear, it is the gospel truth.
                >
                > As always
                >
                > Wings
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "rede2rollbaby"
                > <rede2rollbaby@> wrote:
                > >
                > > "Flying Saucers…And Their Effect Upon Uranus".
                > >
                > > Was laying flat on my back, in a most tranquil repose,
                > > in truth, drunk as the monkey, very near to comatose.
                > > Anyway, I saw this saucer thingy, away up in the sky,
                > > I thought, wake up old son…the washing up don't fly.
                > >
                > > Many's the time in the back blocks, out behind the pub,
                > > I've seen pink Jumbos strollin', I'm givin' you the rub.
                > > Been in the flamin' horrors, for half the week or more,
                > > but pale pink monster saucers…never seen them before.
                > >
                > > Truckin' on down like lightnin', but without the crash,
                > > bigger than a Jumbo Jet, 'cept saucers aren't so flash.
                > > Look scarier if you're drunk, that's `the get out clause',
                > > a hatch opened…and I bloody near had khaki drawers.
                > >
                > > Geezus, what I saw was ugly, and I've seen awful sights,
                > > this was near as gruesome, as your Ma-In-Law in tights.
                > > Whirring noise and rattles, then I saw the stairs appear,
                > > and out trooped the mob that nigh to gave me diarrhoea.
                > >
                > > Reckon they were shielas…they had three boobs apiece,
                > > shrieking and drooling, they spoke of `passion's release'.
                > > Wide as they was high, huge and hairy, total uglies mate,
                > > blood turned to freezing water, as one said, `consummate'.
                > >
                > > I'm not adverse to hanky- panky…like any flamin' bull,
                > > But Gesszus mate, tell you now, you'd never get that full.
                > > Can't have uglies breedin', and scarin' drunks old mate,
                > > like droves of fleshy green dalaks, chanting `pro-create'.
                > >
                > > There I was flat out vulnerable, and hardly game to blink,
                > > I grabbed a full O.P. bottle, thought I'd have a final drink.
                > > Hands green and hairy, pulled the open bottle from my lips,
                > > a motley crew devoured forty ounces, in rapid slurping sips.
                > >
                > > Then polished off the bottle as they swallowed it in chunks,
                > > they gobbled, wobbled, stumbled, those shard eating drunks.
                > > It wasn't top grade `Bundy', just a publicans blended brew,
                > > but it put the cleaners through that three boob motley crew.
                > >
                > > I tell you mate I was relieved, the green mob lost all intent,
                > > they crawled back up the stairway, their energies all spent.
                > > The thingy took off sideways, then looped and barrel rolled,
                > > bowels returned to normal…well mannered and controlled.
                > >
                > > That was the last I saw of that mob, cart wheeling in the sky,
                > > I had no proof, nor souvenir, not one thing to remember by.
                > > But there's a good bit, I wrote a book that made me famous,
                > > a top seller, "Flying saucers, and their effect upon Uranus."
                > >
                > > ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
                > > "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".
                > >
                >
              • wings081
                Dear Gwen Acknowledging your kind remarks, I can only say it was a case of truth,as so often is the case, being stranger than fiction. If people look back
                Message 7 of 11 , Aug 4 2:07 AM
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                  Dear Gwen

                  Acknowledging your kind remarks, I can only say it was a case of
                  truth,as so often is the case, being stranger than fiction.

                  If people look back through the years leading to the present,they
                  will find enough material to fill many an interesting volume with
                  which to delight others.
                  My young brother, who is eight years my junior,once flew a 'string
                  and canvas'twin engine De Havilland biplane from Biggin Hill in Kent
                  to Cape Town in South Africa and back.He was financed by a man who
                  inisted he be allowed to take a 'turn at the wheel' and also he would
                  be accompanied by his wife and two young daughters.

                  The first I heard about it was when he sent me a news cutting from
                  the Daily Mail depicting the family group and the aircraft.
                  Many years later,having saved the cutting and seeing the bones of a
                  story, I persuaded him to write his memoirs of the trip and a
                  rivetting tale it is. Now I am endeavouring to let me put the wheels
                  in motion with a publisher,but he is a little reticent because
                  in the story he slates his backer for not allowing him to take
                  photographic evidence.
                  When my brother suggested he take a camera, the reply was: "Why don't
                  you take the ******* sink as well"and that was the end of it.

                  Let me post a small sample of the derring-do attitude of a past
                  which has now unfortunately disappeared:
                  I quote:
                  " because of apartheid there was not one single country we proposed
                  going through that were represented in the Republic of South Africa
                  and therefore no possibiliity of obtaining clearances.
                  This indeed was the greatest quandry of all. We toyed with all sorts
                  of ideas to solve it but ,in the end it was decided we had no
                  alternative but to heave off into the blue without the clearance and
                  just flannel our way along.
                  Doom and gloom descended on me as I visualised the problems ahead! It
                  was unheard of folly in itself but at least my backer had the
                  foresight to have paperwork like general declarations printed and
                  liberally stamped with our own forged stamps of various colours of
                  balck blue, red and green,to confound any customs or immigration
                  officials.
                  As most of the territories we would be passing through were former
                  British Colonies, lots of stamped paperwork was a must. We therefore
                  hopedthat armed with such,our passage through the unknown may be
                  lubricated a little" unquote.

                  Those were the good old days

                  As always

                  Wings
                  s.com, "queen_of_cryptic_cyphers" <poetry4u@...> wrote:
                  >
                  > Well Dearest Wings Sir,
                  >
                  > Surely I must take off my hat to you with a bow. (Or is it a curtsy
                  > for us lasses. But without skirts that is difficult).
                  >
                  > LOL you two!
                  >
                  > Hugs,
                  > Gwen
                  >
                  > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "wings081" <wings081@> wrote:
                  > >
                  > > Hi Bernie
                  > > You've placed me in a dilemma.I've run out of suitable praise for
                  > > your never ending wonderful submissions which delight us one and
                  > all.
                  > > (even the ladies have a little titter)
                  > >
                  > > My only recourse it would seem is to load my gun and fire a
                  return
                  > > shot.
                  > > So here we go:
                  > >
                  > > Knew a chap like that Bern. Wop at my old station
                  > > Few miles from Rangoon it was, in the Burmese nation
                  > > Never knew him sober. He would drink until he fell
                  > > Never saw him eating. Always missed the dinner bell
                  > >
                  > > He had a pet, a scorpion, black, ugly looking brute
                  > > He'd lead it round the mess at night to see we others scoot
                  > > A sting from that when rattled would give one awful pains
                  > > Didn't seem to worry our Jock with his alcoholic veins
                  > >
                  > > And when it came my time to fly and Jock was on the list
                  > > I knew that he was useless when he was `Brahms and Liszt'
                  > > So I'd coerce another radio chap to join me in our crew
                  > > No trouble there for Wop/ag's stick together just like glue
                  > >
                  > > This went on for a month or two but eventual came to a head
                  > > When Jock couldn't make the toilet can and leaked into his bed
                  > > "Enough" I cried, "you others can do cover for him as you please
                  > > But it's time he visited the M.O. He's got the flaming DTs"
                  > >
                  > > Finally, a group of us spoke firmly and demanded: "Look here Jock
                  > > If you don't mend your ways old sport, we'll carry you to the
                  Doc."
                  > > Perhaps he'd had a letter, with the greeting of `Dear John'
                  > > That's no excuse for your mates to suffer being put upon.
                  > >
                  > > He finally was repatriated to dear old blighty's shore
                  > > Never heard what his girl said when he met up at her door
                  > > Bet she noticed a change from the day they kissed goodbye
                  > > The drunken sot before her was quite a different guy
                  > >
                  > > Now I was fond of a jar or two of the good old amber nectar
                  > > But my crew all knew and trusted me. I was not a base defector
                  > > Calcutta, Hong Kong or Singapore, if I'd been liberal with the
                  > bottle.
                  > > A good eight hours I would allow before my hand went on the
                  > throttle.
                  > >
                  > > Those good old days when we were young, on friends you could rely
                  > > To back you up no matter what, when you took them to the sky
                  > > No doubt the future will produce some men as those now gone
                  > > To risk their lives to save us from the final Armageddon
                  > >
                  > > If on reading this old mate you utter loudly "Strewth"
                  > > I assure you sir and Gwen my dear, it is the gospel truth.
                  > >
                  > > As always
                  > >
                  > > Wings
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > >
                  > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "rede2rollbaby"
                  > > <rede2rollbaby@> wrote:
                  > > >
                  > > > "Flying Saucers…And Their Effect Upon Uranus".
                  > > >
                  > > > Was laying flat on my back, in a most tranquil repose,
                  > > > in truth, drunk as the monkey, very near to comatose.
                  > > > Anyway, I saw this saucer thingy, away up in the sky,
                  > > > I thought, wake up old son…the washing up don't fly.
                  > > >
                  > > > Many's the time in the back blocks, out behind the pub,
                  > > > I've seen pink Jumbos strollin', I'm givin' you the rub.
                  > > > Been in the flamin' horrors, for half the week or more,
                  > > > but pale pink monster saucers…never seen them before.
                  > > >
                  > > > Truckin' on down like lightnin', but without the crash,
                  > > > bigger than a Jumbo Jet, 'cept saucers aren't so flash.
                  > > > Look scarier if you're drunk, that's `the get out clause',
                  > > > a hatch opened…and I bloody near had khaki drawers.
                  > > >
                  > > > Geezus, what I saw was ugly, and I've seen awful sights,
                  > > > this was near as gruesome, as your Ma-In-Law in tights.
                  > > > Whirring noise and rattles, then I saw the stairs appear,
                  > > > and out trooped the mob that nigh to gave me diarrhoea.
                  > > >
                  > > > Reckon they were shielas…they had three boobs apiece,
                  > > > shrieking and drooling, they spoke of `passion's release'.
                  > > > Wide as they was high, huge and hairy, total uglies mate,
                  > > > blood turned to freezing water, as one said, `consummate'.
                  > > >
                  > > > I'm not adverse to hanky- panky…like any flamin' bull,
                  > > > But Gesszus mate, tell you now, you'd never get that full.
                  > > > Can't have uglies breedin', and scarin' drunks old mate,
                  > > > like droves of fleshy green dalaks, chanting `pro-create'.
                  > > >
                  > > > There I was flat out vulnerable, and hardly game to blink,
                  > > > I grabbed a full O.P. bottle, thought I'd have a final drink.
                  > > > Hands green and hairy, pulled the open bottle from my lips,
                  > > > a motley crew devoured forty ounces, in rapid slurping sips.
                  > > >
                  > > > Then polished off the bottle as they swallowed it in chunks,
                  > > > they gobbled, wobbled, stumbled, those shard eating drunks.
                  > > > It wasn't top grade `Bundy', just a publicans blended brew,
                  > > > but it put the cleaners through that three boob motley crew.
                  > > >
                  > > > I tell you mate I was relieved, the green mob lost all intent,
                  > > > they crawled back up the stairway, their energies all spent.
                  > > > The thingy took off sideways, then looped and barrel rolled,
                  > > > bowels returned to normal…well mannered and controlled.
                  > > >
                  > > > That was the last I saw of that mob, cart wheeling in the sky,
                  > > > I had no proof, nor souvenir, not one thing to remember by.
                  > > > But there's a good bit, I wrote a book that made me famous,
                  > > > a top seller, "Flying saucers, and their effect upon Uranus."
                  > > >
                  > > > ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
                  > > > "IGNORE CORRECTNESS...TELL IT HOW IT IS".
                  > > >
                  > >
                  >
                • David Roth
                  Oh My Gosh - She s gone Nekky on us! d. Now Available: Sometimes I Hear Voices ISBN: 978-1-4116-8690-8 ... From: queen_of_cryptic_cyphers
                  Message 8 of 11 , Aug 4 5:26 AM
                  • 0 Attachment
                    Oh My Gosh - She's gone Nekky on us!

                    d.
                     
                     

                    Now Available: Sometimes I Hear Voices
                    ISBN: 978-1-4116-8690-8


                    ----- Original Message ----
                    From: queen_of_cryptic_cyphers <poetry4u@...>
                    To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                    Sent: Friday, August 3, 2007 7:08:21 PM
                    Subject: [ticket2write] Re: "FLYING SAUCERS.." (33852 Wings & Uncle Bernie too)

                    Well Dearest Wings Sir,

                    But without skirts that is difficult).

                    Hugs,
                    Gwen

                  • queen_of_cryptic_cyphers
                    Dearest Mind in the Gutter Dave , Nah to the Nekky! Just wear a lot of jeans these days. Hugs, Gwensie Rooski ... Bernie too)
                    Message 9 of 11 , Aug 6 4:30 PM
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                      Dearest Mind in the Gutter Dave ,

                      Nah to the Nekky! Just wear a lot of jeans these days.

                      Hugs,
                      Gwensie Rooski

                      --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, David Roth <davidjroth2002@...>
                      wrote:
                      >
                      > Oh My Gosh - She's gone Nekky on us!
                      >
                      > d.
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > Now Available: Sometimes I Hear Voices
                      > ISBN: 978-1-4116-8690-8
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > ----- Original Message ----
                      > From: queen_of_cryptic_cyphers <poetry4u@...>
                      > To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                      > Sent: Friday, August 3, 2007 7:08:21 PM
                      > Subject: [ticket2write] Re: "FLYING SAUCERS.." (33852 Wings & Uncle
                      Bernie too)
                      >
                      > Well Dearest Wings Sir,
                      >
                      > But without skirts that is difficult).
                      >
                      > Hugs,
                      > Gwen
                      >
                    • David Roth
                      Busted LOL Dave Now Available: Sometimes I Hear Voices ISBN: 978-1-4116-8690-8 ... From: queen_of_cryptic_cyphers To:
                      Message 10 of 11 , Aug 7 6:32 AM
                      • 0 Attachment
                        <sigh>  Busted  LOL
                         
                        Dave
                         
                         

                        Now Available: Sometimes I Hear Voices
                        ISBN: 978-1-4116-8690-8


                        ----- Original Message ----
                        From: queen_of_cryptic_cyphers <poetry4u@...>
                        To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                        Sent: Monday, August 6, 2007 6:30:21 PM
                        Subject: [ticket2write] Re: "FLYING SAUCERS.." (33852 Wings & Uncle Bernie too)

                        Dearest Mind in the Gutter Dave ,

                        Nah to the Nekky! Just wear a lot of jeans these days.

                        Hugs,
                        Gwensie Rooski
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