“It’s just a big old pussycat,”

There are some people in aviation who leave behind logbook entries, and there are others who leave behind legends.

The late Geoff Pimm belonged firmly in the second category.

During the 1990s, I had the great good fortune to get a few hours in a Harvard IIB at Shoreham Airfield. The aircraft was owned by a small syndicate, two of whom were good friends and flying colleagues of mine. We had all flown together for a number of years whilst sharing Chipmunk G-BBMW, also based at Shoreham.

Those two were John Flavell and Geoffrey Pimm, and this particular story mainly concerns Geoff.

Bless him, I think it would be fair to say that Geoff’s enthusiasm and confidence for this sort of flying occasionally exceeded his competence. That was probably more to do with the pressures of his business life than anything else. Sometimes, when flying with Geoff, one had the distinct impression that not all of him was entirely in the cockpit.

But what Geoff perhaps lacked in concentration, he more than made up for in style.

The Harvard was hangared at the far western end of Shoreham Airfield. Geoff had developed a marvellous little ritual. He would get the aircraft out, start up, and taxi all the way from the western side of the airfield to the eastern end, where he would park up outside the Southern Air flying club and café.

Then came the performance.

Out he would climb, resplendent in a period one-piece flying suit, silk scarf, and bright red bone dome helmet.

He would then stride into the café while all the trainee pilots looked on in awe at this magnificent aviator who had just arrived in a WW2 warbird. Provided nobody actually asked where he had come from, Geoff was perfectly content to let them assume he had just flown in from some distant and heroic destination.

I can still hear him now, telling anyone who would listen that the Harvard was, “just a big old pussycat.”

That line became something of a trademark.

One day, around 1994, it was to become rather more famous than Geoff could ever have imagined.

At the time, Andrew Eadie owned and operated two Harvards. One was G-BKRA, which he used as a flight experience aircraft and which was known locally as the Blue Harvard. The second had only recently been restored and was known as the Yellow Harvard.

Andrew was putting the Yellow Harvard up for sale, and he had decided to market it in the best possible way: by having both aircraft flown in demonstration by two well-known display pilots.

In the 1990s, a two-ship display act known as The Harvard Duo was a familiar sight at airshows. It consisted of Norman Lees, a Virgin Atlantic Captain, and Gary Numan — yes, that Gary Numan, the well-known rock star and, as it turned out, a very capable pilot.

They had agreed to demonstrate Andrew’s Blue and Yellow Harvards and had flown down from North Weald in their own aircraft to do so.

The result was a glorious sight outside Southern Air: a line-up of Harvards in various colours and markings, enough to make any enthusiast stop in their tracks.

Norman and Gary taxied out in the Blue and Yellow Harvards, took off, and went straight into their normal display routine. It was very impressive indeed. A crowd quickly gathered to watch, and amongst them was a television crew — Andrew having quietly let slip that one of the display pilots was Gary Numan.

Immediately after landing, the TV crew made a beeline for Gary.

It was exactly what Andrew had hoped for, and no doubt did the Yellow Harvard’s sale prospects no harm at all.

Gary, to his credit, gave a very honest and thoughtful interview. He described the Harvard as a lovely aircraft to fly, but made the very sensible point that built into it was an aeroplane that could bite if placed in the wrong — or inept — hands.

A fair and professional assessment.

Unfortunately for Gary, the timing could not have been worse.

As the interview was taking place, another Harvard could be seen taxiing in, adding itself to the already splendid collection and bringing the total number present to five.

Gary’s interview had just finished when the pilot of this newly “arrived” Harvard began climbing out.

And there, in all his glory, was Geoff Pimm.

He was dressed, naturally, in the full Geoff Pimm uniform: one-piece flying suit, silk scarf, and bright red bone dome helmet. It was simply too much for the TV crew to resist.

They descended on him just as he slid down from the trailing edge of the wing.

Crucially, they did not ask where he had flown in from.

And Geoff, being Geoff, did not feel under any obligation to volunteer the fact that he had merely taxied from the western end of Shoreham.

The interviewer asked him what he thought of the Harvard.

Now, Geoff had not heard Gary’s measured and cautionary remarks?

But Geoff’s reply was as inevitable as sunrise.

“It’s just a big old pussycat,” he declared.

The TV crew looked momentarily stunned.

Only seconds earlier they had been told by a highly experienced display pilot and celebrity aviator that the Harvard was a fine machine, but one that demanded respect and could bite the unwary.

And now here stood this scarf-wearing warbird hero, freshly descended from his aeroplane, dismissing the whole thing as little more than a cuddly kitten.

The contrast was too much for them.

They promptly returned to the clubroom to find Gary and Norman and informed them that the pilot of the newly arrived Harvard had just given a rather different assessment.

This caused a noticeable stir.

Norman knew the member of our group who normally flew that aircraft, and soon enough enquiries were being made. Poor innocent Chas Bandy, who instructed some of the syndicate pilots, was drawn into the affair, and they all began marching purposefully back out towards the Harvard in search of this bold and evidently fearless aviator.

But by then Geoff had done what Geoff did best.

He had vanished.

Rather than waiting to defend his remarks before the assembled professionals, he had quietly melted away into a cluster of interested spotters, where he was by now basking in admiration, answering questions, and, if memory serves, being bought coffee by his newly acquired worshippers.

I do not believe Gary Numan or Norman Lees ever actually cornered our Geoff that day.

And in truth, that was probably for the best.

Some things at an airfield are best left unresolved.

Endpiece

For all Geoff’s bravado, the Harvard was no toy. It was powered by a 600 hp American radial engine built by Pratt & Whitney — a serious engine in a serious aeroplane.

This incident inspired me to produce a cartoon for Geoff.

It shows the front view of the nine-cylinder radial engine, but with the two top cylinders replaced by the heads of Whitney Houston and Geoff Pimm.

The caption read:

Powered by a Pratt and Whitney.

Geoff, I’m pleased to say, found it very funny.

And that, perhaps, is how I prefer to remember him: silk scarf flying in the breeze, red helmet gleaming, holding court in the café, and telling anyone who would listen that the Harvard was:

“just a big old pussycat.”