I blame Frank Hampson
If I'd had my brain in and working, I would have worked out ahead of time that a helicopter museum was going to be a concentrated dose of Eagle Annual, retro-future, Gerry Anderson and Apocalypse Now. However, I didn't and it was. All of that from a reasonably-sized shed that hummed of warm metal, several different types of lubricant and kero, and was jammed with ironmongery that made you wonder how any of it managed to stay in the air long enough to do anything useful. I defy anyone to peer into the pilot's bit of a Russian gunship (Well, DDR anyway), view the labels on the dials and not think of Clint Eastwood. (Ok, wrong type of flying device, but still...) Or look at the surviving bits of Fairey Rotodyne and not think of Dan Dare. Or stand between a Hughes OH-6 and a Huey and not think (a) 'bloody hell they're small' and (b) starting humming 'Ride of the valkyries'. Then there was the random Westland with the Gerry Anderson interior (Fitted carpet, roll-top drinks cabinet, squared-off brown leather swivel chairs. White turtleneck not optional), the Interflug twin-rotor thingy...
