Wymsey Gliding Club
In Shock Plans:
Since its inception in 1947 the Wymsey Gliding Club has rarely been the focus of controversy neither has it often been at the bleeding edge of aviation but this could be set to change if reports reaching the Chronicle offices this week are anything to go by.
Our information has it that a large foreign aviation conglomerate is putting out feelers vis a vis the W.G.C.'s airfield at Wymsey Bottom End. Rumour further has it that the concern is an English company and fingers are being pointed at the London based Air Passenger International System. APIS is known to be seeking sites to satisfy the exponential growth in passenger demands. It is also well known that the sleepy residents of the English home counties are fed up from being woken at all hours by noisy jets taking their friends and relatives on naff holidays to that fine example of democracy, Florida. The English schizoids attitude to flight means that it has become increasingly harder to get runways built in England so what could be more natural than for APIS to look elsewhere.
Obviously Wales is so full of mountains that there is hardly room to swing a helicopter let alone land an 800 seater wide body Airbus and anyway it is much too far from the English home counties. Plans to join up the Channel Islands to create the biggest runway in Europe was rejected when it was realised that the Islands' potato and tomato production was essential to the well being of the those besuited jonnies in north London. Plus it would be too far from the English home counties.
Which, according to APIS, leaves Wymsey and its gliding club. Unfortunately the club's airfield would, on its own, fall short of the runway length required but APIS also have their collective eyes on Les Smith's smallholding and a great chunk of Wymsey Bottom Farm. Without a doubt if such plans were allowed to go ahead then the whole nature of Wymsey would be changed beyond recognition. Plus it would make a mockery of Wymsey's greenhouse gases policy.
This issue is so gigantic in its far reaching implications that we have decided to devote this issue exclusively to it. We would like to have approached all those directly concerned but soon realised that would have meant the whole populace and thus too much for one issue. Readers can rest assured that we will give everyone a voice until the shear volume of our heart felt protestations will shame the would be destroyers of our peaceful land into crawling back over the border to their drawing boards.
|Down Our Lane
Last time it was atomic power stations and before that it was global warming, now its a blooming great runway thats to replace the Flying Club and girt lumps of Wymsey Bottom Farm plus bits of Les Smith's small holding. And for what - so the English chavs & chavettes can better disrupt the peaceful existence of our good friends in Europe. It gets my goat, maties, yours too I expect. I sometimes wonder what we'll lumbered with next but then I looks up at the blue sky, the yellow door of me hen house and goes all funny like. That why I keeps a few deck chairs around the garden - I expect you do too.
How are your hens taking this hot weather? Getting sulky I expect, what I does is give 'em a great dustbin lid (what I found rolling down Bottom End last winter) full of past-its-sell-by-date ice cream what I gets from the cash 'n carry. That chears 'em up no end and it don't interfere with their laying.
|News From Southamlet:
with Celina S Fontworthy
After some time spent counting the tiles that encircled my well-appointed hospital room, I was released to the arms of my family. The deep marks from the child-carrying vehicle of destruction that ribbon my calves are fading. The memories were not. I have had to re-route my morning commute to accommodate the frightening presence of a "Mamas and Papas", a glass fronted shop of those pink and black rubber death machines referred to as "prams" and "pushchairs".
This requires a change of bus. I arrive at my new stop, winded from an uphill walk, my stride inhibited by the plasters still applied to my battered legs. I check the schedule, which assures me a bus will arrive in five and a half minutes. There is a blue box, which, when a thumb is applied, lets the commuter know EXACTLY when the bus will arrive, in two minute intervals, in case the driver has been delayed, say by a drunk, or a grossly oversized buggy dripping with gore from its latest conquest. I press the area indicated. Nothing happens. Several other people elbow me aside to show me how it's done. A fight breaks out between an accountant and a young salesperson over the amount of time needed and the pressure required. It comes to blows. Directly after the salesperson gives the accountant a good chop to the kidneys, the bus comes, brakes squealing and puffing. There are two prone bodies between me and the already-eight-minutes-late 8A. Do I honour my agreement with my employer, or let belligerence and sloth prevent me from getting Employee of the Year?
The decision is clear. The salesperson has a broad back, and I am wearing sensible walking shoes. As the doors begin to close around the accountant's head, I spring into action. The propelling action of the two large steps I took across the salesperson removes both of them from the bus' steps, and presents me, only slightly shaken, to the driver, my clearly stamped pass ready for presentation. This is the very spirit of urban living: enterprising, athletic, and never suffering a fool.
"Not Blooming Likely Matey!"
"Over my dead body, matey, and no mistake. Quite honestly, I am fuming," was the immediate comment of smallholder and Countryman of the Year 2001, Les Smith, when we approached him in the public bar of the Crown & Thorns. "It's always the little man what gets it in the neck, well not this time, me and my Oddspots will lay down in front of the bulldozers if it should come to it. Heck, I've had plenty of practice laying down, that I have." he told us. "I may have missed the war against the Kaiser and I may have missed helping the miners in their war against the Thatcher but I'm not going to miss this one!"
"I just wonder who owns the the Gliding club land, 'cos I 'eard that they have it on a peppercorn rent from someone. You needs to talk to their chairman Simon Peter Chumpley, him with the weird brothers. One what runs the Pavement Dancing Team and the other what runs the Wymsey Watering Can Orchestra, Gordon & Earshin." Mr Smith commented, "I'll tell you what though, we ain't despondent and we blooming well won't let them APIS jonnies walk over us."
|Mystery Owner Identified!
Since hearing of the awful possibility that the face of Wymsey could be scarred for ever by a blooming great runway we have been asking ourselves who actually owns the land used by the Wymsey Gliding Club. Lesley Smith, as so often happens, is sure that he can smell a rat and when the chairman of the Gliding Club, Simon Peter Chumpley, is not answering his phone or doorbell we begin to smell something fishy.
So we made a visit to the State Planning Department where it was confirmed that there were no applications for the Gliding Club land in the pipeline but that there had been in the past. This turned out to have been an application for out of town retail complex by a company called Greensward Developments of Watchester and it was after this was turned down that the Gliding Club leased the land. Who, you will ask, is behind Greensward Developments? We checked and, oh dearie me, we found the Blaah tribe up to their necks in it. Julius Blaah along with his wife, brother and mother-in-law are listed as sole directors of a company that does nothing and has no other assets than the Gliding Club land.
This looks like the latest in a large number of attempts to destroy the fabric and independence of Wymsey. Blaah has continually stated that we should revert to being a parish under the English and that he should rightfully be head of the Council. Only his family agrees, the rest of Wymsey are at this very moment planning to run the Blaahites out of Wymsey and into the arms of the those besuited north London jonnies that Blaah so admires and apes.
|Who Is Simon Peter Chumpley?
The Chumpley brothers, Gordon, Earshin and Simon Peter were brought up in Wymsey and were born within a year of each other to parents Susie May Chumpley nee Changwine and Simon Gordon Earshin Chumpley. Their father was a grindler of the old school and went to his grave bemoaning the automation that had rendered him unemployable in a trade that had evolved in the Dark Ages. Long term readers of the Chronicle will remember grindling and grindlers affectionately.
Their mother, Susie May, was one the Farthingdale Changwines, an enfeebled noble family that settled in the area after the Battenberg expulsions. For many years she was employed by Wymsey Infants School and many remember her as the nicest ever dinner lady.
click to join!