The Voice judge Tom Jones' affair with Miss World and how his wife won him back - Mirror Online
Flying has torn apart the relationship of space and time: it uses our old clock but with new yardsticks .. Viscount Hugh M. Trenchard, "Linda Ronstadt?. Sir Thomas John Woodward OBE (born 7 June ), known professionally as Tom Jones, is a In March Jones married his high school girlfriend, Linda Trenchard when they were expecting a child together, both aged .. In October , while on tour in the US, Jones had a brief relationship with model . The early years: Tom Jones and wife Linda pictured during a . love story of Tommy Woodward and Melinda Trenchard begins in Treforest.
I learned what every dreaming child needs to know -- that no horizon is so far that you cannot get above it or beyond it. These I learned at once. But most things come harder. When I'm up in the air, it's like I'm closer to heaven; I can't explain the feeling.
To fly a kite is to hold God's hand. Hawkins But to fly is just like swimming. You do not forget easily. I have been on the ground for more than ten years. If I close my eyes, however, I can again feel the stick in my right hand, the throttle in my left, the rudder bar beneath my feet. I can sense the freedom and the cleanliness and all the things which a pilot knows. Japan's greatest living ace with 64 kills, who was banned from flying at the end of W.
From the foreword to 'Samurai! How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?
Whether outwardly or inwardly, whether in space or time, the farther we penetrate the unknown, the vaster and more marvelous it becomes. Lindbergh, 'Autobiography of Values. How detached the intimate things around me seem from the great world down below. How strange is this combination of proximity and separation. That ground -- seconds away -- thousands of miles away.
This air, stirring mildly around me. That air, rushing by with the speed of a tornado, an inch beyond. These minute details in my cockpit. The grandeur of the world outside. The nearness of death.
Tom Jones (singer)
The longness of life. An exquisite community grows up between machine and pilot; each, as it were, merges into the other. The machine is rudimentary and the pilot the intellectual force. The levers and controls are the nervous system of the machine, through which the will of the pilot may be expressed-and expressed to an infinitely fine degree.
A flying-machine is something entirely apart from and above all other contrivances of man's ingenuity.
The aeroplane is the nearest thing to animate life that man has created. In the air a machine ceases indeed to be a mere piece of mechanism; it becomes animate and is capable not only of primary guidance and control, but actually of expressing a pilot's temperament.
We who fly do so for the love of flying. We are alive in the air with this miracle that lies in our hands and beneath our feet. Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this. He'd become a pilot for this very moment: Flying was a thrill in even a single-engine airplane, but to levitate a leviathan -- a metallic eggshell longer than a football field and heavier than a house -- was a magic he could never quite comprehend.
Every liftoff was a philosophical wonder that left a broad smile on his face. Nance, 'Blackout,' He did it alone.
Tom Jones new girlfriend: Singer 'dating' Priscilla Presley | Daily Star
We had a cast of a million. Pilots are a rare kind of human. They leave the ordinary surface of the word, to purify their soul in the sky, and they come down to earth, only after receiving the communion of the infinite. Until now I have never really lived! Life on earth is a creeping, crawling business. It is in the air that one feels the glory of being a man and of conquering the elements. There is an exquisite smoothness of motion and the joy of gliding through space.
Flying has always been to me this wonderful metaphor. In order to fly you have to trust what you can't see. Up on the mountain ridges where very few people have been I have thought back to what every flyer knows. That there is this special world in which we dwell that's not marked by boundaries, it's not a map.
We're not hedged about with walls and desks. So often in an office the very worst thing that can happen is you could drop your pencil.
Out there's a reminder that are a lot worse things, and a lot greater rewards. Up here with the song of the engine and the air whispering on my face as the sunlight and shadows play upon the banking, wheeling wings, I am completely, vibrantly alive.
With the stick in my right hand, the throttle in my left, and the rudder beneath my feet, I can savor that essence from which life is made. It's a magical feeling to climb toward the heavens, seeing objects and people on the ground grow smaller and more insignificant. You have left that world beneath you. You are inside the sky. He knew that we gave constant lip service to the dictates of safety and howled like Christians condemned to the arena if any compromise were made of it.
He knew we were seekers after ease, suspicious, egotistic, and stubborn to a fault. He also knew that none of us would have continued our careers unless we had always been, and still were, helpless before this opportunity to take a chance. Gann More varied than any landscape was the landscape in the sky, with islands of gold and silver, peninsulas of apricot and rose against a background of many shades of turquoise and azure.
A ship in port is safe, but that is not what ships are for. Sail out to sea and do new things. We had more fun in a week than those weenies had in a lifetime. It's the most exciting thing you have ever done with your pants on! If you have flown, perhaps you can understand the love a pilot develops for flight.
It is much the same emotion a man feels for a woman, or a wife for her husband. Nowadays a businessman can go from his office straight to the airport, get into his airplane and fly six hundred or seven hundred miles without taking off his hat.
He probably will not even mention this flight, which a bare twenty-five years ago would have meant wearing leather jacket and helmet and goggles and risking his neck every minute of the way. No, he probably wouldn't mention it - except to another flier. Then they will talk for hours. They will re-create all the things seen and felt in that wonderful world of air: They will speak of things that are spiritual and beautiful and of things that are practical and utilitarian; they will mix up angels and engines, sunsets and spark plugs, fraternity and frequencies in one all-encompassing comradeship of interests that makes for the best and most lasting kind of friendship any man can have.
Be like the bird in flight. On earth we strive for our various needs, because so goes the fundamental law of man. Aloft, at least for a little while, the needs disappear. In the thoughts of man aloft, food and evil become mixed and sometimes reversed. This is the open door to wisdom. Aloft, the earth is ancient and man is young, regardless of his numbers, for there, aloft he may reaffirm his suspicions that he may not be so very much.
This is the gateway to humility. And yet, aloft there are moments when man can ask himself, "what am I, this creature so important to me?
Who is it rules me from birth to tomb? Am I but a slave destined to crawl for labor to hearth and back again? Am I but one of the living dead, or my own god set free? Here aloft, we are not lost, but found.
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Gann's Flying Circus,' When we walk to the edge of all the light we have and take the step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid for us to stand on or we will be taught to fly.
Man may have been destined to walk upon ice or sand, or climb the mountains or take craft upon the sea. But surely he was never meant to fly? But he does, and finding out how to do it was his last great adventure. And there you have our difference: I got to know the nooks and crannies on Mir very, very well. When all the world is a hopeless jumble and the raindrops tumble all around, Heaven opens a magic lane. When all the clouds darken up the skyway, there's a rainbow highway to be found, Leading from your window pane.
To a place behind the sun, Just a step beyond the rain. Somewhere over the rainbow way up high, There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby, Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue, And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.
Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me, Where troubles melt like lemon drops, away, above the chimney tops, that's where you'll find me. Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I? If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I?
Up in the sky, look! Cape does not enable user to fly. I'm a new man. I go home exhilarated. It is appearances, characteristics and performance that make a man love an airplane, and they, are what put emotion into one. You love a lot of things if you live around them, but there isn't any woman and there isn't any horse, nor any before nor any after, that is as lovely as a great airplane, and men who love them are faithful to them even though they leave them for others.
A man has only one virginity to lose in fighters, and if it is a lovely plane he loses it to, there his heart will ever be. You can always tell when a man has lost his soul to flying. The poor bastard is hopelessly committed to stopping whatever he is doing long enough to look up and make sure the aircraft purring overhead continues on course and does not suddenly fall out of the sky.
It is also his bound duty to watch every aircraft within view take off and land. We dit it, we did it! So the crew fly on with no thought that they are in motion. Like night over the sea, they are very far from the earth, from towns, from trees. The clock ticks on. The dials, the radio lamps, the various hands and needles go though their invisible alchemy.
Out of oblivion the gold has been smelted: Flying is more than a sport and more than a job; flying is pure passion and desire, which fill a lifetime. The cockpit was my office. It was a place where I experienced many emotions and learned many lessons.
It was a place of work, but also a keeper of dreams. It was a place of deadly serious encounters, yet there I discovered much about life.Barun Sobti quotes about his relationship with his wife Pashmeen 💝
I learned about joy and sorrow, pride and humility, fear and overcoming fear. I saw much from that office that most people would never see.
At times it terrified me, yet I could always feel at home there. It was my place, at that time in space, and the jet was mine for those moments. Though it was a place where I could quickly die, the cockpit was a place where I truly lived.
Before I went to the Mess I made the excuse I wanted to get something out of my aeroplane, and climbed into the cockpit; I did this, however, to be able to say good-bye to the old dear; and I really felt dreadfully sorry to part with her.
I get very attached to aeroplanes, and I am one of those people who think that they aren't so inanimate as we are told they are. Whether we call it sacrifice, or poetry, or adventure, it is always the same voice that calls. Again I felt that overpowering rush of excitement which I fond almost everyone has experienced who has seen a man fly. It is an exhilaration, a thrill, an ecstasy. Just as children jump and clap their hands to see a kite mount, so, when the machine leaves the ground and with a soaring movement really flies upon its speeding wings, one feels impelled to shout, to rush after it, to do anything which will relieve the overcharged emotion.
Flying is a lot like playing a musical instrument; you're doing so many things and thinking of so many other things, all at the same time. It becomes a spiritual experience. Something wonderful happens in the pit of your stomach. We never wonder where they live: Flight is their way of being in the world. The reason for this is that he is about to enter a new though familiar world.
The process of entrance begins a short time before he leaves the ground and is completed the instant he is in the air. From that moment on, not only his body but his spirit and personality exist in a separate world known only to himself and his comrades.
As the years go by, he returns to this invisible world rather than to earth for peace and solace. There also he finds a profound enchantment, although he can seldom describe it. He can discuss it with others of his kind, and because they too know and feel its power they understand. But his attempts to communicate his feelings to his wife or other earthly confidants invariable end in failure. Flying is hypnotic and all pilots are willing victims to the spell.
Their world is like a magic island in which the factors of life and death assume their proper values. Thinking becomes clear because there are no earthly foibles or embellishments to confuse it. Professional pilots are, of necessity, uncomplicated, simple men. Their thinking must remain straightforward, or they die -- violently. The men in this book are fictitious characters but their counterparts can be found in cockpits all over the world.
Now they are flying a war. Tomorrow they will be flying a peace, for, regardless of the world's condition, flying is their life. Gann, forward to 'Island in the Sky,' All my life, I've never been able to get enough airplanes.
This will keep me flying every day. Flying has torn apart the relationship of space and time: For pilots sometimes see behind the curtain, behind the veil of gossamer velvet, and find the truth behind man, the force behind a universe. My father had been opposed to my flying from the first and had never flown himself.
However, he had agreed to go up with me at the first opportunity, and one afternoon he climbed into the cockpit and we flew over the Redwood Falls together. From that day on I never heard a word against my flying and he never missed a chance to ride in the plane. When I was twenty, most of my friends were dead. We had sweated out the troopship journey together, shared the excitements of new countries, endured and enjoyed the efforts of learning to fly.
At last we had completed our training, and had stood in the hot Rhodesian sun together while our wings were pinned on our chests. We were then more than friends; we were fellow pilots, which to a boy of nineteen was inexpressibly wonderful The World of the Airline Pilot,' The job has its grandeurs, yes. There is the exultation of arriving safely after a storm, the joy of gliding down out of the darkness of night or tempest toward a sun-drenched Alicante or Santiago; there is the swelling sense of returning to repossess one's place in life, in the miraculous garden of earth, where are trees and women and, down by the harbor, friendly little bars.
When he has throttled his engine and is banking into the airport, leaving the somber cloud masses behind, what pilot does not break into song?
I can't remember the time when airplanes were not a part of my life and can't remember ever wanting anything so much as to fly one. Once I had started I had to keep flying.
But it was not until I was seventeen that I finally got into an airplane. At that time I felt I had come to the place where I belonged in the world. When I felt nervous it pulled me together. Things could get too much for me on the ground, they never got that way in the air. I felt that way the first time I got into an airplane. I wasn't nervous when I first soloed. There was excitement in me, but it was the nice kind you get when you're going home after a long, long unhappy time away.
Here above the farms and ranches of the Great Plains aviation lives up to the promise that inspired dreamers through the ages. Here you are truly separate from the earth, at least for a little while, removed from the cares and concerns that occupy you on the ground. This separation from the earth is more than symbolic, more than a physical removal-it has an emotional dimension as tangible as the wood, fabric, and steel that has transported you aloft.
They made a sort of crackling hiss, and always the same smell of castor oil spraying backwards dThe 0 in a fine mist over your leather helmet and your coat. They were delightful to fly, the controls so light, the engines so smooth running.
I stood there and took it, " he says. Then again, what else could he do? For however much pain Linda managed to inflict on her errant husband, the fact is that Sir Tom has caused his wife far more hurt in their long and unconventional marriage. As well as the longer-term liaisons with Marjorie Wallace, the aforementioned Miss World and Mary Wilson of The Supremes, there were all the casual flings - up to of them in a year, according to the man himself.
One of these resulted in a son, born inwhom he helps support to financially after a court battle but has never met. To Sir Tom, now 75 and sporting a head of curly white locks, serial infidelity is not something to get too upset about. He doesn't regret his affairs because, he claims, "I never hurt anybody. Long a recluse to the point of agoraphobia, she has had two brushes with cancer, one of them almost fatal. She now suffers from emphysema after years of heavy smoking and needs a stairlift to get upstairs.
She is overweight and won't even have a hairdresser come to the house to cut her hair, let alone go out to a salon. I don't look like I did either but I try my best," says Sir Tom, making it clear that his wife does not make the same effort. Whether this is a euphemism for something darker is impossible to know, but it is clear that for all the wealth it has brought them, her husband's fame has been very hard for Linda.
The couple born Tommy Woodward and Melinda Trenchard have known each they since they were 12, both the children of coal miners growing up in Pontypridd, South Wales. Sir Tom reveals that he yearned for Linda for the whole two years he spent virtually bedridden while recovering from TB. Years later after he had moved to Los Angeles, he bought the old red telephone box which stood at the end of Linda's street where they used to do their courting and had it installed by the swimming pool.
It still has a working telephone inside. Linda was pregnant with their son, Mark, when she and Tommy married.