On the 27th February 1983 I was instructed to make my way to Ming-Ming where the MV Jack Wharton was loading petro-coke at the Lindsey refinery. Bloody Ming-Ming, I spent so much time in the place I may as well have rented a flat there! It was late afternoon when I arrived and the ship was waiting for the engine to be re-assembled in order for it to be able to sail before midnight. I was instructed to get ready for work immediately, So I got into my boilersuit and made my way down to the engine room where the job was almost finished. It was another B&W Alpha and I was instructed to clean out a series of threaded holes in the turbine casing of one of the main turbochargers with a tap. I was specifically told to be careful and under no circumstances break the tap, which I promptly did—I think on the very first hole. Oooh err! The chief was furious, jumping up and down and screaming. Not a good impression on your first day!
“I think he’s taken a bit of a shine to you” said the second sarcastically as the chief arranged for the casing to be sent ashore and have the broken tap spark-eroded out of it at short notice. The ship missed the twelve o’ clock deadline and me and the chief never did get on after that. He was a miserable old bastard anyway, close to retirement and only had a couple of years left. That didn’t stop him threatening to fill me in soon afterwards. We’d had a tense morning because the engine was playing up and, typical of someone in charge who doesn’t have a clue as to why, took out his frustrations on those around him. He turned to me.
“Get me a 9/16 spanner” he demanded rudely.
I’d had enough.
“What do you think I am—your fucking boy?” I replied. “Get your own fucking spanner”.
“Get me that spanner or I’ll fucking hit you” he snarled.
Game old goat I’ll give him that: a sixty-odd year old, overweight, unfit, glasses-wearing, heavy smoker putting himself up against a fit young twenty-two year old who’d done a bit of boxing. So I told him I liked a man with a sense of humour and in return he told me I might as well fuck off. So I fucked off! I went back up to my cabin and had a beer. Five days later I was told to pay off and join the Ligar Bay. A total trip of ten days!
The ship’s captain was the infamous ‘Mini Cooper’—the miniature martinet—short of stature but large of temper, and a man not well liked by many. In fairness I had little to do with him and so will reserve judgement on the man, in fact I heard that he didn’t like the Chief, so perhaps he wasn’t all bad! Between me breaking the tap and paying off the ship had sailed from Ming-Ming to a place in Norway called Mongstad. I was hoping for another Bergen, but it was more like fucking Grangemouth: just a refinery and a few houses—not even a pub. I stayed onboard! Then it was down to Dover where an engineering cadet, Neddy, joined me. Ned joined in the intake after me and was shortly to be made a junior engineer. From Dover it was on to Amsterdam and on our arrival Ned and me decided to go and have a few beers and see what might develop. In the event, although we tried valiantly, neither of us managed to get ourselves a young lady for the night and so reluctantly, and somewhat the worse for wear, we made our way back to the ship. The last time I’d had sex was with my girlfriend when I was on leave, so it had been just long enough for a young bloke to start getting desperate for it.
“That was a good night Ned, but I’m busting for sex” I said, a few minutes after we’d turned off the Damrak onto the road to Mercuriushaven.
“Well don’t look at me” he said.
“I wasn’t” I replied, “I was looking at your wallet—how much money have you got?”
“A bit” he said.
“Well lend me some” I demanded, “because I’m going to do her” I said, pointing to a blonde prostitute trying to hustle up some business on the other side of the street. I didn’t usually engage the services of a working girl, but sometimes a desperate young man has to make do with what he can get! Ned dutifully handed over a fistful of Dutch guilders and waited for me while I went inside the building. I followed her up a set of stairs into a quite large bedroom complete with ensuite. The woman got undressed, as did I, and we got down to business. I was just getting busy when, apparently totally oblivious to what was going on, a man entered the room and the pair began a conversation in Dutch.
“Do you mind mate”, I said tersely, “I’m in the middle of something here!”
“Sorry”, he said in English, and left, presumably to finish the conversation later.
I didn’t ask who he was—I found it best to mind one’s own business those types of situation. Apart from the brief interruption it was all very business-like and afterward we had a chat about life and Amsterdam. She obviously knew I was English and was quick to complain vociferously about my compatriots. Of that of all the nationalities that visit the city, she said, the British and the Germans were the worst:
“The English come here to fight”, she declared, “and the Germans come to fuck”.
I think of the two, the Germans have got it about right—I’ve always admired the Germans! I walked out into the cold Amsterdam night where Ned was waiting, sitting on a low brick wall smoking a cigarette.
“Are you all right now?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah, that should do me for now” I replied.
We continued our walk until further up the road we came across an elegant-looking black girl soliciting for business.
“Oh shit…a black girl—Ned…how much money have you got?” I asked.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, what—again?” he said.
“Yep…come on, gimme”, I asked impatiently.
Ned handed over some more cash.
“That should keep me out of mischief for a while” I said as we returned to the ship.
On the 6th of March the ship left Amsterdam and headed south. Three days later we were tied up in the small French Basque port of Bayonne. Bayonne is a pleasant place just north of the border with Spain although we didn’t endear ourselves with the locals by ‘doing a runner’ from a bar after running up a fairly hefty slate. It wouldn’t have been too difficult for the locals to guess where we were from, given that we were the only British ship at the quayside, but I paid off the next day so I don’t know if there were any consequences. Spring comes much earlier in the South of France, and it was a beautiful day as I left the taxi at Biarritz airport. It was then on to Paris, London and Euston station for the train to Carlisle.
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