What a plan, to fly, to paraglide, to leave the land and soar like a bird.

What a plan, to travel along cliffs, to climb thermic air, to aim at the horizon and spy lesser birds far below.

What a plan, to land where chosen, to pack away, to smile ear to chimp ear and walk head held high.

What a plan, to give grace to others, others who have kissed a train, untwisted tight lines and still laugh at the spectacle.

What a plan, to look back, laugh at knocks, unpick decisions and live to fly another day.

What a plan, spite and bad feeling behold, may the flying go flying and ignite that paragliding feeling.

What a plan ...

Gazing with a distant soft saddened stare, on a paragliding landing zone and I'm staring out there.

Turbulent emotions are mangling my soul. Incoming pilots flying solo with no self control.

Headfirst - a nose dive in progress, post collapse.  Thinking twice - a complex process.

Falling aimlessly towards the ground with constant flashbacks in mind. Gusting wind, and vortex turns rushing my eyes forcing them blind.

Gravity's strong pull is more than the wings want.  No turning back, a decision full blown.

Ground zero near, it's closing in fast. Seconds from death, my breath at its' last.

I'm screaming so loud, "For fecks sake, don't flap".   A nightmare will repeat, my mind is shook up.

I stand and stare at launch, with pilots falling to the ground.  Please stop this madness, this flapping, this turbulence, this potential death.

When I was 49, I dreamed of being a paragliding King and having everything I wanted.  But that was long ago, and my dreams did not unfold, so I'm still the King of nothing.

When I was 50 I dreamed I gave my email to a flying Queen and then I held her.  But that was FlySpain's fault for I have no job at all, and I'm still the King of nothing.

If I could rule, I'd fly my cares away, find lifty air every day.  I wouldn't have to listen to other Kings and Queens, poor fool say I'm the King of Kings, I'm the King of nothing.

All Hail the King and Queen

I wandered lonely as a chimp
That floats on high o'er Brid and bay,
When all at once I saw a gull,
A host, of golden soaring birds;
Beside the sea, over the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

I cannot work.
I cannot work.
I cannot work.
(Really Ian, is that the best you can do?)
Ok, will try again

I cannot work.
I shall not work.
Far too lazy to work.
Did you ever really work?
Oh my god, what can I do next.

My nose hair grows.
My ear hair grows.
My little single pointy hair in between my eyebrows on my nose also grows.
My head hair doesn't

My man ***** are growing.
My waist is growing.
My fat head is growing.
My golden years of eating drinking and doing bgger all is behind me.

Hobbies to pass the time.
Flying, fishing and complaining about stuff.
Grumphing, moaning and grumbling.
Telling people to **** and bgger off.
Learning more from The Big Barnsley Book of Swearing.

I wandered lonely as a chimp
That flies on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a shrimp,
A ghost, of golden thrills;
Beside the lake, beneath Ian's knees,
Flying and fluttering in the breeze.

Cumulus clouds building before the rain
And thermals lifting on the way,
They stretched in never-ending plane
Along the margins of Filey bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The clouds over Filey Bay danced; they
out-did the sparkling waves containing wee:
#Ianthechimp is definately not grey,
The hairy chimp did not ***:
Ian gazed—and gazed—but little thought  (as usual),
What lift the clouds to me had brought:

For this aft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in grumpy mood,
They flash upon that final fly
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And paraglides with ok, but adequate flying skills.

I've seen paragliders you people wouldn't believe.
Race D wings on fire off the shoulder of Le Saleve.
I watched C wings glitter in the dark near Troinex landing.
All those moments will be lost in the summer of 2019, like… farts in wind.
Return to the UK. Time to fly.