Adopt a Dutch accent:
“Ladies and gentlemen: the show is about to begin!”
Repeat ad nauseam for nine hours each day.

Clearly someone in the RAF thinks that EMLRA are a bunch of jokers; in six years the Association’s display pitch at the RAF Waddington Air Show has been moved from a circle of turf in the centre of an aircraft turning circle to a plot surrounded by commercial-sized diesel generators powering a full-sized fun fair. Which, from where I was sitting, was neither fun nor fair – at least the other end of the line were spared the worst of the “fun” and had the advantage of a big screen showing (apart from a certain football match) live footage of the flying that was being obscured by the presence of the fun fair.

This year, although we spent a good deal of Friday afternoon being moved from one end of the funfair to the other via the aircraft compass circle, we at least managed to rope in a couple of RAF sergeants and a flight lieutenant to manhandle the 9x9s. Once we were safely ensconced in position, Simon Crane and Barbara headed off to the one place in Waddington that was even hotter than the 30°C ambient temperature, for the traditional Friday night Fish’n’Chip run. Being from dahn sahf, Barbara was pleasantly surprised by the prices – all eight of us were fed and fizzy-popped for less than £20, which included a bottle of “traditional non-brewed condiment” (it’s called vinegar where I come from).

Sorry, do we sound a tad negative here? Well, don’t let us put you off – the actual air show staged by Waddington is wonderful and well worth your journey no matter how far away you live. Compared to previous years, the flying agenda was a bit thin this year, but this has to be viewed in context – there was still something happening above your head for almost all of the time. Hercules performing supposedly unfeasible landings? Chinook flying in unexpected and unlikely orientations? Three Spitfires growling past in front of you at the same time? Small plane hanging motionless at the top of a climb several hundred feet up? “Why, certainly sir, it’ll all be along in a moment…” It’s rare to see a Boeing 757 being gracefully thrown around the sky; mind you, you’d be worried if they tried it on your holiday flight to Majorca. Further “entertainment” was provided by Wayne on the Sunday, attacking the shorts-clad ladies on the Club stand with a huge chunk of ice, which he had removed from the freezer to a cool box two days earlier. It just goes to show how effective the insulation of Norwegian cool boxes can be. What it says about Wayne though is another matter. Shall we move on?

It was noticeable that this year there were fewer aircraft lined up along the taxiway. As a non-aircraft spotter I suppose I could say that once you’ve seen one parked F-15 then you’ve seen them all, but I suspect there will be a chorus of disapproval if I did. So I shan’t. Even so, saying that there were fewer still means that there were a lot lined up to be viewed, and the fact that we are now allowed to encamp out on the display area means that there is plenty of opportunity to view them after the public have been sent home and there’s plenty of space again.

To this end, I found myself sitting in the back of the Panther on the Saturday evening with Sally, Barbara and Chris with Tony and Wayne up front gently bimbling up and down the flight line seeing what was going on. Using the Panther as a viewing platform, we were able to get some good photos of the Lancaster and watched a Hercules being reversed into a space that looked fractionally smaller than the aircraft. The ultimate aim though was to secure permission for a repeat of last year’s out-of-hours visit to the otherwise out-of-bounds Vulcan on the far side of the runway.

A chance interception of the patrolling bird scarer vehicle resulted with the offer of an official escort across the airfield to get a closer look at the distant precious things. Pausing long enough to gather two extra vehicles and as many willing bodies that could be rounded up in ten seconds, a convoy of a Panther and two 110s was lead through the gates at the end of the runway, across and over to the Vulcan. Photos were taken and we were then lead over to stop in front of the Lancaster with a Spitfire close by; photos were taken. Our increasingly enthusiastic guide (who’s name, sadly, we never did discover) then took us right down the taxiway to parts of Waddington usually almost out of sight to get closer views of two Canberras, less close views of two Eurofighters, a Chinook and finally a whole herd of AWACS. And amid the really secret barbed-wire protected area is a golf course. Yes, that’s right, a golf course! And you thought they were all beavering away ensuring our National Security. Despite the rapidly failing light, dozens of photographs were taken, many from positions and proximities that aerophiles would probably pay large sums of money to achieve, if not actually kill for. The benefit was not entirely one-sided either. Our arrival in front of the Canberras certainly made the evening more interesting for the RAF guard and his dog; in his own words, the last thing he’d expected to see rolling up was a Panther, never mind one stuffed with people. And Wayne Davies. The dog seemed unimpressed, but who were we to take offence?

By the time we were returned to the less secretive side of the airbase it was dark, but the heat remained so the Association formed a convivial group behind the parked Panther around Wayne’s appel korn bottle. As has happened in previous years, the nearest available after hours toilets were about 200 yards away on the other side of the flight line. However, this year the RAF guard dogs and their handlers (one of whom looked all of 12 years old – and I don’t mean the dog!) seemed unconcerned about us wandering around looking at the aircraft on our way to the facilities.

Now, in previous years I have been alternately soaked, frozen and wind-frazzled at Waddington. This year it was most certainly summer and the centre of an airbase offers no hiding from it. The only thing more relentless than the sun was the noise of the fun fair, so it made good sense to walk around the acres of trade stalls and, better still, the exhibits inside the vast hangers in order to get away from both. During our unofficial tour the previous evening, the AWACS had appeared to be just medium-sized jets with a serious attack of radar equipment on top. Once inside a hanger, the same aircraft suddenly seems much larger, and the purpose-made working platform structure required to access the aerial array on top of it is a serious piece of engineering in its own right. You can only hope they don’t have to go to all that trouble if someone has designed the AWACS with a vital 15p 2-amp fuse way up in the dome that pops occasionally. No matter how hard Rover tried, not even they could manage something of that scale. “I’ve got a red light showing.” “Don’t worry sir, that’ll be the 2-amp fuse in your radio. 15p for parts, but the labour will be £115,000 and we’ll need it in the workshop for two weeks. Would you like us to wash the windscreen while we’ve got the ladders out? Oh, that’ll be plus VAT obviously. Have a nice day.”

While we walked back to the line of green Land Rovers it became clear that it was impossible to eat ice cream faster than it was melting, but it didn’t stop us from trying. I also proved that it is impossible to stand still for more than two minutes without being asked questions. I should point out that I was wearing C95 trousers with the club polo shirt and no hat, so basically I was no-one. But I made the mistake of standing still while waiting for Sally to reappear from a certain portable building that had a queue outside it, and was suddenly asked where the helicopter rides went from. I was able to answer that, but then found there was a queue of people wanting other answers. Barbara was having similar problems: “I was asked exactly the same question while wearing pretty much the same ‘uniform’. Makes a change from ‘where are the toilets?’ The question I didn’t know the answer to was ‘where’s the NAAFI bar?’ (although I do now). However, the questioner looked as if he’d had more than enough already, so perhaps I did him a favour.”

At least I wasn’t called “sir” this year by anyone who really should have known better.