Blimey. And the rest of it is rather eye-opening too. History is surely a wonderful thing.

Folks,

Thank goodness Dux is safe if not completely sound. Who knew Dux could even drive a tractor? I guess it must be Squire Dux now? Lord help us, have you taken to farming in your advanced age? I didn't know that marijuana could be grown in Derbyshire.

Obviously we all knew Dux really dug the archaeological and the architectural however this surprises even me. There were some things I simply was not 'privy' to. You're digging out an ancient three-holer you say that pre-dates the genius of Thomas Crapper by ages? This proves that if you really want to get to the bottom of things Dux is certainly your man. And when you do get down to the bottom of all that please refrain from describing what's there in the pit Dux.

Hmmmmm. On the other hand you could get lucky. Who knows what might be down there? Folks in those days threw all manner of stuff down those rough cut holes. You might find 1600s era pottery, crockery, bottles, pipes, the family pet, and the odd relative or two (long deceased), maybe even old coins. However if you are as lucky as I am, you will in all probability only find an ancient pile of, well you know, and hundreds of pages torn from the 1600's England equivalent of the Sears catalog. Keep those old boards with the holes carved in them.... you never know, you might find them to be a real asset one day.

What can you possibly say about a wise man who has everything modern he could ever want technologically who spurns all that and spends all his days restoring a 17th century outhouse to its original broken down condition..... to keep his bleedin' tractor in yet?

You could say he dearly loves his tractor.... but do tractors need outhouses? Perhaps he meant to say he was restoring the thing for his horse or his mule? You know a four-legged, two eared, one tail tractor. Now those things could use an outhouse and then some as anyone knows who has ever seen them in action.

These saucy Brits have an odd way of saying day-to-day things while completely ignoring the use of the much improved language we so generously re-created for them. You don't think by "tractor" he meant ride-on-lawn mower do you? :rolleyes:

Don't let us kid you too much Dux. You keep right on digging. You're the number one man in the number two business as far as I'm concerned. And yes, I think I hear PhotoShop firing up. This is just too good to let it...er... pass.

Speaking of digging. Do you chaps know the very first thing you should always do when you find yourself down a hole you may not be able to crawl out of? The very first thing you have to do is....stop digging!

Folks,

As you predicted C51 Dux and his new digs have made the news!

Look here:

[Sorry Pic removed from server 10/21/03]

I enjoyed doing the thing because it offered me the opportunity to draw several items from scratch that I had never been called upon to illustrate before. Good practice with PhotoShop and great fun. I hope Dux "digs" it.

JRT,
roflmao
a true masterpiece of news reporting, right down to old Dux's beady eyes peaking out of the dark.

i'm amazed that The Times was able so quickly after the wind - i mean the story - broke, to get a reporter on sh*te - i mean site!

Old Dux, you should know better than to give JRT such easy bait!

Folks,

C51

Thanks, 'twas you who put me up to it so I'm most pleased that I seem to have met or even exceeded your wildest expectations. Of coarse had you not encouraged me I would never in my most outlandish of demented dreams thought to do such a thing on my own. It is therefore entirely your fault if poor innocent Dux's feelings are hurt.

Now I wonder what Dux and SNAFU too for that matter do think?

The thing has been reduced in size and optimized so a few details suffered I'm afraid. There is a sign carved in the wood over the privy door that states "3-holes no waiting". A reddish plaque beside the door is inscribed with "est. 1600". Under that plaque is a touching heart-shape deeply carved in the weathered old clapboards. Inside that heart-shape is carved "D&J".

Well done C51 catching Dux's beady eyes shining at you from the inner gloom of the restored old loo. Don't bother trying to read the small text under the left most column headline that is only what we in the business call "greeking".

All,

First, welcome back Dux, we were a bit concerned but can see you were busy with much more important things.

I was wondering what happened since upon taking my Spit up for a look see for you I spotted a portion of a field adjacent to the back lot of the Scalded Cat. The outline of landing wheels were clearly visable in the dirt from altitude and I of course assumed you had brought you bird down there for a spot of tea.

Some would argue that you chaps have had one to many hard landings.

In any case JR2, your headlines are just a rip!

TALLY HO!

All,

First, welcome back Dux, we were a bit concerned but can see you were busy with much more important things.

I was wondering what happened since upon taking my Spit up for a look see for you I spotted a portion of a field adjacent to the back lot of the Scalded Cat. The outline of landing wheels were clearly visable in the dirt from altitude and I of course assumed you had brought you bird down there for a spot of tea.

Some would argue that you chaps have had one to many hard landings.

In any case JR2, your headlines are just a rip!

TALLY HO!

All,

First, welcome back Dux, we were a bit concerned but can see you were busy with much more important things.

I was wondering what happened since upon taking my Spit up for a look see for you I spotted a portion of a field adjacent to the back lot of the Scalded Cat. The outline of landing wheels were clearly visable in the dirt from altitude and I of course assumed you had brought you bird down there for a spot of tea.

Some would argue that you chaps have had one to many hard landings.

In any case JR2, your headlines are just a rip!

TALLY HO!

Folks,

HWH founder SNAFU has reported in several times and obviously he is a strong believer in the safety of redundancy or perhaps he feels that anything worth posting once is well worth posting again and again. Careful SNAFU if this new trend catches on I might start doing multiple posts myself and you'd have to read all my junk over and over... and over.

Careful SNAFU if this new trend catches on I might start doing multiple posts and you'd have to read all my mess over and over.

Careful SNAFU if this new trend catches on I might start doing multiple posts and you'd have to read all my mess over and over.

You know what? I don't think that was a triple post after all. I think it was in fact an echo due to the scarcity of souls lounging around these halls at the moment ))))) at the moment )))) a t t h e mo me n t.......

Folks,

In an effort to get at least something going here I am re-posting one of my little stories. This one comes from way back on page one of this long 2000 post plus thread "HWH continued".

To the Rescue
[Originally posted 1/5/2002]

Major Paul Gootennacht was the most recent issue of a long line of fine German soldiers. Paul had always considered himself to be an excellent military aviator and a Prussian-like stickler for discipline. To use an American term for it, he favored “spit and polish”. As a flight cadet the shine on his boots was said to rival that of the sun itself.

And yet, today, as he looks down at his boots he notices that they are dull and scorched. His usually pristine uniform hangs around him in tatters. Long strips of his powder blue flight suit billow out as the rushing air toys with them and tries to tear them away.

The Major's keen blue eyes follow the burning hulk of his bullet riddled BF 109E as it leaves a oily smirch across the sky in a long, final arc that ends in a powerful splash and a plume of water a hundred feet high.

He too falls toward the waiting depths of the cold English Channel. Paul falls more slowly though, swinging to and fro under a snapping, popping, full canopy of smoothest silk.

Poor Paul feels every jerk, tug and every pop. The fresh sea air vibrates through the shroud lines and causes them to whistle and sing. Looking down, the decorated German flier sees that he can make out individual white caps now. Soon he will feel the Channel's icy grasp in a freezing spray of salty bubbles.

At 16,000 feet a battle still rages through the towering sun lined mountains and dark cumulus canyons of an August afternoon. It is a battle in which no quarter is asked or offered as pilots of fighter and bomber alike twist and turn to save their own lives or to purposely snuff out that of others.

Higher still, long threads of twisted, knotted contrails witness other layers of the deadly conflict. Hundreds risk their lives today for their country. Many will give their lives and all their tomorrows.

Here and there long, greasy, black streaks rip across puffy cloud and blue sky. These are the final scratches made on the canvas of a world at war by far too many fine men on both sides. These ugly streaks hang for a time and point, like the angry, accusing fingers of God toward the watery graves, newly filled, that will never be visited.

It is now, and unknown to me, that one of the greatest names in the illustrious history of the RAF is busy just trying to keep me alive. Not knowing that help is at hand, I find myself and my Spitfire Mk1 upside down and falling steeply toward a dense cloud.

That in itself is not bad. What is bad is that I am not alone. I am being followed all too closely by a pair of the generally unsociable Luftwaffe's most grouchy members. They have already shot away much of my airplane, my confidence and my pride. Did I mention that I'd spotted two more yellow nosed devils rushing to the aid of their “outnumbered” comrades?

It is at this pregnant moment when life hangs by a thread of a thread and feverishly teeters in the balance that I am mentally checking off things like: Is my insurance paid up? Have I signed that last copy of the will? Who will feed my goldfish?

It is also at this moment that the stout fellow I've mentioned finally is able to even the odds somewhat by pinging a few unfriendly but well placed .303s into and around the cockpit area of my two pursuers.

The yellow-nosed boys are suddenly and inhospitably reminded of pressing engagements that require their immediate attention and return to mainland France. In a moment, I am free of all torment and safe within the dark bosom of a friendly cloud.

At last, I am streaking for home with another kill to my credit and my lovely Spit in tatters but still airworthy. As I break from the darkness of cloud into a low but blinding sun I am startled to see a shadow fall slowly between my glistening Perspex canopy and the sun. It is a jolly Spit and I instantly recognize the markings. So this was the brave fellow who dropped by in a timely fashion to save my goldfish from starving.

The blizzard of chatter on the R/T has quieted now and I hear the dulcet tones of Wing Leader Old Dux as he calmly reports the damage to my ride home. Into the setting sun we glide over the Channel while gradually losing altitude on a certain course toward home and a hot meal.

Below, on a course toward France a fast motor launch is swiftly thumping along through the spray and over the waves.

Seated comfortably out of the wind and spray, wrapped in warm blankets, one large schnapps already warming his gizzard, Major Paul Gootennacht bounces wearily along toward what passes for home these days. His eyes are closed and a smile warms his lips as he thinks of the hot bath and warm bed waiting for him.

The shivering man opens his heavy eyes to ask for another schnapps. The major only glances up from the shadows momentarily to see the waning sunlight glint upon the wings of two British Spitfires as they pass high overhead and completely unnoticing.

Salute Old Dux!