Build A Rocket, Boys.

Picked the Child up from school today.

"Much homework?" says I.
"Just some English, and we have to build a rocket for the Science Day tomorrow" , says the Child.

If you happen to be a father, and you are reading this, you will understand that that particular sentence ranks up there along with - "Daddy, you are the Greatest Man In The World, therefore I am joining an enclosed order on a continent yet undiscovered. I will come back to take care of you when you start to drool blood and need a nappy change. And, by the way, all money I earn from the service of my spurious deity will be lodged to your retirement fund."

Back to The Rocket.

The (incomplete) instruction sheet, stages 5 and 6, showed some of the mechanicals involved.
I, of course, had to do a McGyver, and both reverse- and forward-engineer the project.
There was no mention of propulsion systems, attitude jets, inertia dampening or, for fucks sake, weapons platforms.
What's a Daddy to do, then?

Make a fucking starfighter, thats what Daddy does, despite the sighs and groans of his Child and Heiress.

To make this deadly Starfighter, Attitude Class, Sub-Class Suicider, you will need-

3 sheets of A4 paper.
The inside roundy bit of a roll of cling-film (saran wrap to the yanks).
Some random blue soft things for the stubby wings.
Shitloads of paint.
A kitchenroll holder.
A manic imagination.
LOADS of sellotape.
Beer and fags and a Child who wil happily fuck off to the couch while her Dad makes a starfighter.

If anybody asks where the weopan pods are, I will hunt them down and kill them.




Best fun in ages