Have been to Mersea, Barcelona, Dublin and that London since last I managed breath to post, some of which more later, but I wanted to get today's beef off my chest first.
What is t about gyms that requires the lowest denominator of entertainment be broadcast to the sweating masses? I will expand........
........ which is apt, as I only go to the gym because I am expanding. I turned forty reasonably fit, and still enjoyed having the crap beaten out of me at Shotokan karate (the full fat version, much more bare knuckle boxing than the ballet favoured by some of the weaker variations), but I was getting so slow that 12-year-olds were putting me in A & E on a regular basis, so regular that my then boss ordered me to cease my interest, and with it the amount of time he was paying me to be mended in hospital.
So I turned to the brainless agony of the gymnasium, and with it learnt that these places are populated by boneheads of both sexes, and the entertainment of choice is invariably, God preserve us, local radio. And I hate it, stupid local DJs wittering on about Kylie's bum, Celebrity Big Brother or some such, with a playlist of about ten tunes that pluggers have paid large amount to have the oxygen of airplay.
I then made the realisation that there is a protocol, as long as it is noise of some sort. So I made sure I turned to earlier and earlier in the morning until I made sure I was first there, and then enjoyed glorious silence. But that only lasted until the first moron turned up, and without a by-your-leave, turned the wireless onto Idiot FM and set the volume to the degree that ensures blood trickles out of one's ears. I tried saying that I was listening to my John Cage CD, but that fell on deaf ears (I vastly prefer John Cage to Mike Batt's pale imitation - although it is interesting that the courts ruled against the estate of John Cage because they couldn't prove which 2 minutes of Four Minutes and Thirty Three seconds that Batt had plagiarized). Then I thought I would hang a sign on the wireless saying 'SILENCE IS A CHOICE'. Most of these idiots can't even read, anyway.
On one occasion, I was asked why I hadn't turned the wireless on, and I replied 'Because I am a musician', but even that didn't prompt further debate on machine-produced muzak.
So I set my hat towards being as selfish as everyone else, and tuned into Radio 4, and then propelled myself into endorphin heaven on the cross trainer. Funnily enough, no one who subsequently arrived went anywhere near the wireless, until I was in the process of signing out, when Idiot FM was instantly dialled up.
I think I am going to have to subscribe to the modern age and get one of these Ipod devices and download 'Pick of the Week' for some private pleasures via headphones whilst blowing my brains out on the rowing machine
Wednesday 30 January 2008
Tuesday 15 January 2008
Prior's Barges and the days before Docklands
It now looks likely I won't make this year's official London Boat Show, but my earlier posting on the subject put me in mind of my time as a bargee on the London River, and my promise to enlarge upon the subject.
I'm pretty sure it was the summer of 1980 that I was in the Peter P. In the argot of the Thames, one is not 'on' a barge, but 'in' it. Personally, being 'in' something sounds inherently safer than being 'on' it, and as those barges plied the Thames in anything below a Force 9, 'on' sounded like a great probability of falling 'off', whilst 'in' meant being deep loaded nearly to the gunwhale and surprisingly cosy in a seaway.
I had just finished my 'sandwich' year of college, when I worked at Burlingham's Seeds in Bury St Edmunds. I had qualified as a crop inspector (perhaps more of that year later, there are stories to tell) but spent the last couple of months working in the lab, and was, as I remember, flat broke. As I remember, I worked an academic year at Burlingham's, and whilst I was in no way a model employee, I seem to remember that my resignation was well received and certainly not discouraged, so I started in September 1979 and finished in Bury in July 1980, leaving me free to earn some serious wonga before going back up (ho ho) to college.
I'm not saying that Burlingham's weren't fair payers for a next to useless student, but I had to find my board and run a car (the trusty Rust Bucket, an E reg Vauxhall Viva)and knew that my final year at college was going to be equally bibulous as my first, so I needed to have six weeks of hard cash-earning potential. My first call was to my old friend James Juniper, builder to the gentry of Tollesbury. He had been my employer from mid school years, and a fairer boss I have never had. However, there was a haitus in the building trade that probably coincided with the beginning of the Thatcher years, and no work there was.
So, I went down to Woodup to see my new best mate Dudley Padgett (of whom a great deal more later) to ask him if there was any chance of getting a berth in Prior's Barges, for whom he worked. He made a call, and there was indeed a mate's berth in the Peter P, the barge on which Dud was the engineer. These barges sailed three-handed, and the master was Rodney Hucklesby of West Mersea. Now we Tollesburymen don't have any truck with they Merseamen, but needs must when the Devil drives, and I was delighted to sign up as mate.
Mate!!!!! On a Sand barge? How cool is that? I drove over to Fingringhoe with Dud one Monday morning in July and climbed down the ladder onto the Peter P. Down in the foc's'le (I always have to work out where the apostrophes go in that one) I met Rodney Hucklesby and liked the man immediately. He was a man of few words, and when I say that, I mean he didn't waste words, as he talked slowly and in a considered manner that lent weight to his opinions. I was in turn respectful of his rank, and used the same MO as when I started work on the sailing barge three years previously by knowing nothing, as I had seen that self-presentation worked best with professional seamen. I asked Rodney to show me the ship and what did what, and what he expected from me.
The Bert Prior, very similar to the Peter P
As was the James Prior
The first job was heaving the hatches back into sea-going position, as the ballast freight had already been loaded. Then it was made waterproof by hauling the large green tarpaulin over the hatches, and made watertight by placing battens down the hatch sides (to pin the tarpaulin) and then banging the wooden wedges with a mallet into the retaining bars spaced every three feet down the side of the hatch. Wedges always pointed aft, which was obviously the best way as a running sea would force them further in, rather than washing them out if hammered in for'ardways, but I quickly learned that the latter was 'bad luck', the first of three misdemeanours I committed concerning superstition.
Whilst I helped Rodney with the hatches, Dud was doing what engineers do, which is I guess like that mad looking geyser in Das Boot, listening to his diesels talk to him through his screwdriver. Dud sported a surgeon's operating cap and mask, and in chalk on top of his toolbox was the monicker 'Doctor Dudley'
Hatches secured, we came off the berth about a couple of hours before low water, with the skipper at the helm, and I was amazed that the deep-laden barge stayed afloat in a near empty River Colne. She drew nigh on nine feet, and there isn't a lot of that sort of water in the river at that state of tide. As the river gave way to estuary between Mersea and Brightlingsea the throttle went down, and we rode the last power of the ebb down to the Bar buoy, then shaped to port for the red and white striped buoy I knew well as the Wallet Spitway. Once round the Spitway buoy, it was straight for its twin on the edge of the Swin channel. That was another surprise, in that during spring tides, the depth was ....... nine feet. Going aground doesn't slow down the Swin Rangers, as the Priorsmen were otherwise known, just shove the throttle down harder and grind the nuns off the bottom! Another delicious synonym, this time for barnacles.
Once round the Swin Spitway, it was shape away for the Whittaker Beacon, where Dud took the helm, the tide was on the turn and Rodney repaired to the foc's'le. I stayed in the 'wheelbox' with Dud for the duration on the Swin, until we breasted the Blacktail Spit buoy, east off Southend, and start of the Thames proper. During Dud's trick, I learned the radio routine....... 'Thames Coastguard, Peter P, inbound for Deptford, 300 tons of ballast' or somesuch, I really can't remember.
Then I took the wheel of the barge, and my first trick took me right past the supertanker berths of Coryton and Shell Haven and with sea traffic driving on the right, it was within half a mile of the biggest ships I'd ever seen. I was gripping that wheel, ears riveted to the wireless for tanker and tug movements, eyes peeled for smokestacks and movement, but I was blessed with a challenge-free passage past the huge refineries, with the fast progress of 9 knots of boatspeed and a couple of knots of fair tide.
Then it was fairly calm, round Mucking Flats and up to the Ovens buoy at Tilbury, which is where Rodney appeared again to take the barge for the final stretch and onto the berth. That berth was in Deptford Creek, and we brought chaos to road traffic whilst the road bridge was lifted to let us through, a manoevre complicated by a corkscrew turn in the creek immediately prior to the bridge. Then the warps went ashore and were casually made fast. Mooring yachts has always amused me since learning the ways of workboats, with the cat's cradles favoured by various yachting universities, and knots that Alexander the Great would struggle getting a sabre through.
Once we'd secured, it was straight out with the wedges and the battens, hatchcloth off, and then the wooden hatch covers were stacked at each end by means of a hook and a handle, obviously with one man each end. And that was it, my first freight delivered and I was pretty exhausted by this time, and tried to turn in to my bunk in the foc's'le. BANG! What was that? BANG! Dud, what was that? BANG! I shot up the companionway ladder and saw the grab going in for the fourth bite. I then learned that no one sleeps whilst the grabs are working, even in exhaustion, it is impossible.
So, whaddya do when you're at a loose end in London of a day? And it was mostly days, as the London end was union controlled and the Fingringhoe end was not, so it was usual to load at night and discharge by day. In a poor week, we got two freights in, an average week was two and a half freights in (yes, a railway trip home on a Friday, or trip up on Monday) and three cargoes was a lottery win. That is of course because the work was paid piecerate to encourage maximum productivity and speed of turnround. That incentive was very strong, as it overwhelmed the need for sleep, of which more later.
This was also the occasion of my second transgression against Poseidon, Neptune, Bill Nighy or whoever is in charge of superstition down there. I took off my cheesecutter cap and put it top downwards on the foc's'le table, and was shouted at immediately by both master and engineer. I'll get the third one off my chest now. Don't ever, Ever, EVER say the word 'Rabbit' on a boat. I don't know why, just don't, you get shouted at very loudly, it is bad luck of the very worst kind, and you will be blamed for everything that goes wrong, large or small (and the large ones are difficult to live down, as you quickly acquire Jonah status).
Whilst we're in the foc's'le, it is probably best to describe it. It is the smallest area possible, by dint of allowing the largest area possible for the profit-bearing carrying hold, and is not an ideal shape for modular living. These barges are pretty bluff bowed, and the first provision inside the stem is the chain locker for anchoring. Immediately behind this bulkhead is the living quarters, with the 10' long ladder coming down the port side, with a small, very basic galley fitted on the starb'd side. The table sits in the middle, with three chairs, between the four berths, two on each side, one atop the other. Privacy is afforded by means of a curtain hung inside each berth cubicle. The foc's'le was a pretty grubby place, as it remained the responsibility of the ship's company to keep it clean. One memory sticks in my mind most particularly, as it has to do with smell. One freight, we had another Tollesburyman shipped aboard, Guffie Lewis, and he basted himself in Brut 33 or similar to disguise the stench of shipboard life before a run ashore, the purpose of which I can only guess at.
And so to a run ashore, as sleep was impossible on the berths in London. My favourite was getting up Brick Lane for a curry. Dud would order a plethora of dishes, some dangerously hot, and slowly work his way through them, sweating profusely because of the chili rush, and this ritual would take up most of an afternoon. Other pastimes were more earthy, this being the East End, and it was customary for the some of the rowdier pubs on Commercial Road to lay on strippers for lunchtime entertainment. There was a lot of talk about a recent incident when Rodney's pipe was misappropriated by one of the lady entertainers, and that pipe sat in a jar of disinfectant in the wheelhouse window for three weeks before it was used again. I can remember bumming pipe tobacco off Rodney, Clan, I think it was, and hand-rolling smokes, but they were vile to inhale. I was emulating one of the other Prior's skippers that allegedly smoked the pipe tobacco Gold Block as cigarettes, getting rid of a pouch a freight.
The problem with coming back down the London River was the coinciding of the barge being so high out of the water and the necessity to leave on the top of the tide, and when the third factor of a spring tide high water was brought into play, it was positively dangerous. I remember being scared witless heading towards one of the low bridges, Westminster, I believe, on a trip a year later, when Rodney was on holiday and a character called Blackie had command. The tide was phenomenally high, and the fierce ebb had already set in, and to give better manoeverability, the barge was going full chat, so the combination of a high-riding barge, about 12 knots of speed over the ground, a black night with the backdrop of city lights and a very low bridge getting closer extremely rapidly, I was convinced there was no way under God's heaven we could get under that bridge alive. Blackie quietly asked me to lower the radio mast on the wheelhouse roof, which I did short order. The last thing I remember in the moments the bow went under Westminster Bridge was Blackie saying 'Sometimes it takes some bottle to do this job'. Before the end of his sentence, the wheelhouse should have been ripped off the superstructure with no one in it left alive to tell the tale, and I swear I have never seen such large rivets, but somehow, no part of the barge touched the bridge, and we passed underneath unscathed.
Other times were more levitous. It was a sunny day, and we were upbound, passing under the bridges, when Dud was on his way aft from the foc's'le with a mug of tea. He glanced round and saw a group of American tourists taking photo's from a bridge, so he put the mug down on the hatchcloth and danced the hornpipe, the delighted tourists failing to see the intended insult.
Prior's head office was at Orchard Place on Bow Creek, which was also their shipyard. I loved going up there, as we had to pass the Pura vegetable oil refinery, and the smell of palm oil hung heavy in the air. I spent fifteen years thinking that was the smell of lard, as Pura only registered in my mind as being lard, and there was a coaster tied up alongside called the PL Trader, and I was told the PL stood for Pure Lard. It was only when I went to work for Anglia Oils in Hull (now AarhusKarlshamns)that I remembered that redolent smell in Bow Creek. Sadly, Orchard Place, the refinery, and probably even the strippers in the Commercial Road pubs are all gone now.
The other berth we serviced was up at Nine Elms, near Battersea, and that was a bitch of a berth to get onto, as it was the only one athwart the stream, so warps had to be constantly adjusted to allow for tide.
And so back to my first freight, to close the story. When we returned to an empty barge at Deptford, it was customary to leave the hatches open unless it was draughty and therefore expedient to make the ship safe for a seaway. They had water ballast tanks fitted so the light barge could be lowered further into the water for an easier motion at sea, but I don't recall this being done as a matter of course. The bridge was of course raised again to let us out, and very soon we had rounded the Ellis & Everard corner and were back out into the Thames, Rodney at the helm. It was evening time, probably about 9pm
Rodney took her down through the Woolwich Barrier, which was still very new in those days, and on down to Tilbury, where Dud took his turn. I was trying to get some sleep in my bunk, but it seemed only minutes before the foc's'le bell rang, telling me it was ten minutes until I was due on. Sleep, or chronic lack of it, was the cruellest feature of being a Swin Ranger. I reckoned I got between two and four hours sleep in every twenty four, and I have always been pathetic if sleep-deprived, so I found that aspect very difficlut to live with, and thus the weekend became a sleepfest, with at least two twelve hour sleep periods.
It was the Blacktail Spit buoy where I took over, but it being my first trip, I wondered if Dud would stay with me. He knew I knew the Swin channel, so without a word, and with inherent trust, he went for'ard, leaving me with the dark, the flashing buoys, a chart and a wheelhouse light. I was in heaven and heaven above looked beautiful.
I learned to drive barges a couple of years before, and knew the fundamental rule well; that is, just give her a spoke or two, and she'll answer soon enough. The common mistake that the novice makes is turning tentatively, deciding too quickly that she isn't answering, and then give her a whole revolution of the wheel. Then she careens round, whilst you give it two turns the other way, and there is a crazy path left in the water and great embarrassment for the rookie helm. So I was able to conduct my sea trials as I was alone for the first time, timing how long she took to answer to one spoke, different either side, interestingly. I also brushed up on my chartwork, putting her on course and having a good look round for sea room, then turning the wheelhouse light on to work out compass courses between the Swin buoys and correcting them for variation and deviation. One one later occasion, I steered a compass course on a black night from the Wallet Spitway to the Bar Bouy at the mouth of the Colne. Quite remarkably, and I promise this is true, but as late as 1980, the turning mark for commercial shipping heading up Colne was not lit! Unbelievable, doubly so as less important buoys such as the North West Knoll and Eagle were lit, but true. That made my compass course all the more dangerous, and as I had timed the three mile leg from the Wallet Spitway, I was both relieved and alarmed to see the Bar buoy slip past the starb'd rail no further than a barge's length away. The buoy bore the scars of being clouted by bigger vessels than ours, and I'm glad to say it was lit soon after, and of course remains lit to this day.
So, I charged down the Swin with the ebb still under me, shaped up from Whittaker to cross the Crouch and rounded the Swin Spitway. As we were light, there was no depth trobles, but I still studied the echo sounder trace with a need to know just where the Spitway was at its shallowest. When I rounded the Wallet Spitway, I rang the foc's'le bell to stir Rodney for the last few yards from the Bar up to the ballast quay. It was now a pleasant early summer morning, low sun and little breeze, as I rounded the Bar. I shaped her up for Brightlingsea, but there was no sign of Rodney. I figured he was making a brew, but still there was no sign when I passed the Inner Bench Head buoy, so I put the helm on lock and shot for'ard and down the companionway ladder. There was Rodney, fast asleep in his berth.........
And that is the finest compliment I have ever been paid. I wasn't told of it until later, and then only by Dud, as it seemed Rodney was a compulsive worrier, and would never sleep when a new hand was aboard until he was sure he could trust them, and even then he would sleep lightly and notice even the smallest change in teh ship's motion. And there he was, fast asleep on my first trick, I felt ten feet tall.
We rounded onto the berth, tied up, and what happened then I remember not. All I knew was that when payday came around, I received riches untold, and as I was on student rate tax, I was paid more than Dud. He was absolutely furious!
I do pine for those simple days, and keep promising myself I will look up Rodney in Mersea one of these days, God willing he's still with us, as sadly Dudley isn't........... but I'll save his story for another day.
And finally, I was gratified to Google Prior's, and found them to be alive, well and seemingly thriving at http://www.jj-prior.co.uk/index.php?content=welcome
Good luck to them!
I'm pretty sure it was the summer of 1980 that I was in the Peter P. In the argot of the Thames, one is not 'on' a barge, but 'in' it. Personally, being 'in' something sounds inherently safer than being 'on' it, and as those barges plied the Thames in anything below a Force 9, 'on' sounded like a great probability of falling 'off', whilst 'in' meant being deep loaded nearly to the gunwhale and surprisingly cosy in a seaway.
I had just finished my 'sandwich' year of college, when I worked at Burlingham's Seeds in Bury St Edmunds. I had qualified as a crop inspector (perhaps more of that year later, there are stories to tell) but spent the last couple of months working in the lab, and was, as I remember, flat broke. As I remember, I worked an academic year at Burlingham's, and whilst I was in no way a model employee, I seem to remember that my resignation was well received and certainly not discouraged, so I started in September 1979 and finished in Bury in July 1980, leaving me free to earn some serious wonga before going back up (ho ho) to college.
I'm not saying that Burlingham's weren't fair payers for a next to useless student, but I had to find my board and run a car (the trusty Rust Bucket, an E reg Vauxhall Viva)and knew that my final year at college was going to be equally bibulous as my first, so I needed to have six weeks of hard cash-earning potential. My first call was to my old friend James Juniper, builder to the gentry of Tollesbury. He had been my employer from mid school years, and a fairer boss I have never had. However, there was a haitus in the building trade that probably coincided with the beginning of the Thatcher years, and no work there was.
So, I went down to Woodup to see my new best mate Dudley Padgett (of whom a great deal more later) to ask him if there was any chance of getting a berth in Prior's Barges, for whom he worked. He made a call, and there was indeed a mate's berth in the Peter P, the barge on which Dud was the engineer. These barges sailed three-handed, and the master was Rodney Hucklesby of West Mersea. Now we Tollesburymen don't have any truck with they Merseamen, but needs must when the Devil drives, and I was delighted to sign up as mate.
Mate!!!!! On a Sand barge? How cool is that? I drove over to Fingringhoe with Dud one Monday morning in July and climbed down the ladder onto the Peter P. Down in the foc's'le (I always have to work out where the apostrophes go in that one) I met Rodney Hucklesby and liked the man immediately. He was a man of few words, and when I say that, I mean he didn't waste words, as he talked slowly and in a considered manner that lent weight to his opinions. I was in turn respectful of his rank, and used the same MO as when I started work on the sailing barge three years previously by knowing nothing, as I had seen that self-presentation worked best with professional seamen. I asked Rodney to show me the ship and what did what, and what he expected from me.
The Bert Prior, very similar to the Peter P
As was the James Prior
The first job was heaving the hatches back into sea-going position, as the ballast freight had already been loaded. Then it was made waterproof by hauling the large green tarpaulin over the hatches, and made watertight by placing battens down the hatch sides (to pin the tarpaulin) and then banging the wooden wedges with a mallet into the retaining bars spaced every three feet down the side of the hatch. Wedges always pointed aft, which was obviously the best way as a running sea would force them further in, rather than washing them out if hammered in for'ardways, but I quickly learned that the latter was 'bad luck', the first of three misdemeanours I committed concerning superstition.
Whilst I helped Rodney with the hatches, Dud was doing what engineers do, which is I guess like that mad looking geyser in Das Boot, listening to his diesels talk to him through his screwdriver. Dud sported a surgeon's operating cap and mask, and in chalk on top of his toolbox was the monicker 'Doctor Dudley'
Hatches secured, we came off the berth about a couple of hours before low water, with the skipper at the helm, and I was amazed that the deep-laden barge stayed afloat in a near empty River Colne. She drew nigh on nine feet, and there isn't a lot of that sort of water in the river at that state of tide. As the river gave way to estuary between Mersea and Brightlingsea the throttle went down, and we rode the last power of the ebb down to the Bar buoy, then shaped to port for the red and white striped buoy I knew well as the Wallet Spitway. Once round the Spitway buoy, it was straight for its twin on the edge of the Swin channel. That was another surprise, in that during spring tides, the depth was ....... nine feet. Going aground doesn't slow down the Swin Rangers, as the Priorsmen were otherwise known, just shove the throttle down harder and grind the nuns off the bottom! Another delicious synonym, this time for barnacles.
Once round the Swin Spitway, it was shape away for the Whittaker Beacon, where Dud took the helm, the tide was on the turn and Rodney repaired to the foc's'le. I stayed in the 'wheelbox' with Dud for the duration on the Swin, until we breasted the Blacktail Spit buoy, east off Southend, and start of the Thames proper. During Dud's trick, I learned the radio routine....... 'Thames Coastguard, Peter P, inbound for Deptford, 300 tons of ballast' or somesuch, I really can't remember.
Then I took the wheel of the barge, and my first trick took me right past the supertanker berths of Coryton and Shell Haven and with sea traffic driving on the right, it was within half a mile of the biggest ships I'd ever seen. I was gripping that wheel, ears riveted to the wireless for tanker and tug movements, eyes peeled for smokestacks and movement, but I was blessed with a challenge-free passage past the huge refineries, with the fast progress of 9 knots of boatspeed and a couple of knots of fair tide.
Then it was fairly calm, round Mucking Flats and up to the Ovens buoy at Tilbury, which is where Rodney appeared again to take the barge for the final stretch and onto the berth. That berth was in Deptford Creek, and we brought chaos to road traffic whilst the road bridge was lifted to let us through, a manoevre complicated by a corkscrew turn in the creek immediately prior to the bridge. Then the warps went ashore and were casually made fast. Mooring yachts has always amused me since learning the ways of workboats, with the cat's cradles favoured by various yachting universities, and knots that Alexander the Great would struggle getting a sabre through.
Once we'd secured, it was straight out with the wedges and the battens, hatchcloth off, and then the wooden hatch covers were stacked at each end by means of a hook and a handle, obviously with one man each end. And that was it, my first freight delivered and I was pretty exhausted by this time, and tried to turn in to my bunk in the foc's'le. BANG! What was that? BANG! Dud, what was that? BANG! I shot up the companionway ladder and saw the grab going in for the fourth bite. I then learned that no one sleeps whilst the grabs are working, even in exhaustion, it is impossible.
So, whaddya do when you're at a loose end in London of a day? And it was mostly days, as the London end was union controlled and the Fingringhoe end was not, so it was usual to load at night and discharge by day. In a poor week, we got two freights in, an average week was two and a half freights in (yes, a railway trip home on a Friday, or trip up on Monday) and three cargoes was a lottery win. That is of course because the work was paid piecerate to encourage maximum productivity and speed of turnround. That incentive was very strong, as it overwhelmed the need for sleep, of which more later.
This was also the occasion of my second transgression against Poseidon, Neptune, Bill Nighy or whoever is in charge of superstition down there. I took off my cheesecutter cap and put it top downwards on the foc's'le table, and was shouted at immediately by both master and engineer. I'll get the third one off my chest now. Don't ever, Ever, EVER say the word 'Rabbit' on a boat. I don't know why, just don't, you get shouted at very loudly, it is bad luck of the very worst kind, and you will be blamed for everything that goes wrong, large or small (and the large ones are difficult to live down, as you quickly acquire Jonah status).
Whilst we're in the foc's'le, it is probably best to describe it. It is the smallest area possible, by dint of allowing the largest area possible for the profit-bearing carrying hold, and is not an ideal shape for modular living. These barges are pretty bluff bowed, and the first provision inside the stem is the chain locker for anchoring. Immediately behind this bulkhead is the living quarters, with the 10' long ladder coming down the port side, with a small, very basic galley fitted on the starb'd side. The table sits in the middle, with three chairs, between the four berths, two on each side, one atop the other. Privacy is afforded by means of a curtain hung inside each berth cubicle. The foc's'le was a pretty grubby place, as it remained the responsibility of the ship's company to keep it clean. One memory sticks in my mind most particularly, as it has to do with smell. One freight, we had another Tollesburyman shipped aboard, Guffie Lewis, and he basted himself in Brut 33 or similar to disguise the stench of shipboard life before a run ashore, the purpose of which I can only guess at.
And so to a run ashore, as sleep was impossible on the berths in London. My favourite was getting up Brick Lane for a curry. Dud would order a plethora of dishes, some dangerously hot, and slowly work his way through them, sweating profusely because of the chili rush, and this ritual would take up most of an afternoon. Other pastimes were more earthy, this being the East End, and it was customary for the some of the rowdier pubs on Commercial Road to lay on strippers for lunchtime entertainment. There was a lot of talk about a recent incident when Rodney's pipe was misappropriated by one of the lady entertainers, and that pipe sat in a jar of disinfectant in the wheelhouse window for three weeks before it was used again. I can remember bumming pipe tobacco off Rodney, Clan, I think it was, and hand-rolling smokes, but they were vile to inhale. I was emulating one of the other Prior's skippers that allegedly smoked the pipe tobacco Gold Block as cigarettes, getting rid of a pouch a freight.
The problem with coming back down the London River was the coinciding of the barge being so high out of the water and the necessity to leave on the top of the tide, and when the third factor of a spring tide high water was brought into play, it was positively dangerous. I remember being scared witless heading towards one of the low bridges, Westminster, I believe, on a trip a year later, when Rodney was on holiday and a character called Blackie had command. The tide was phenomenally high, and the fierce ebb had already set in, and to give better manoeverability, the barge was going full chat, so the combination of a high-riding barge, about 12 knots of speed over the ground, a black night with the backdrop of city lights and a very low bridge getting closer extremely rapidly, I was convinced there was no way under God's heaven we could get under that bridge alive. Blackie quietly asked me to lower the radio mast on the wheelhouse roof, which I did short order. The last thing I remember in the moments the bow went under Westminster Bridge was Blackie saying 'Sometimes it takes some bottle to do this job'. Before the end of his sentence, the wheelhouse should have been ripped off the superstructure with no one in it left alive to tell the tale, and I swear I have never seen such large rivets, but somehow, no part of the barge touched the bridge, and we passed underneath unscathed.
Other times were more levitous. It was a sunny day, and we were upbound, passing under the bridges, when Dud was on his way aft from the foc's'le with a mug of tea. He glanced round and saw a group of American tourists taking photo's from a bridge, so he put the mug down on the hatchcloth and danced the hornpipe, the delighted tourists failing to see the intended insult.
Prior's head office was at Orchard Place on Bow Creek, which was also their shipyard. I loved going up there, as we had to pass the Pura vegetable oil refinery, and the smell of palm oil hung heavy in the air. I spent fifteen years thinking that was the smell of lard, as Pura only registered in my mind as being lard, and there was a coaster tied up alongside called the PL Trader, and I was told the PL stood for Pure Lard. It was only when I went to work for Anglia Oils in Hull (now AarhusKarlshamns)that I remembered that redolent smell in Bow Creek. Sadly, Orchard Place, the refinery, and probably even the strippers in the Commercial Road pubs are all gone now.
The other berth we serviced was up at Nine Elms, near Battersea, and that was a bitch of a berth to get onto, as it was the only one athwart the stream, so warps had to be constantly adjusted to allow for tide.
And so back to my first freight, to close the story. When we returned to an empty barge at Deptford, it was customary to leave the hatches open unless it was draughty and therefore expedient to make the ship safe for a seaway. They had water ballast tanks fitted so the light barge could be lowered further into the water for an easier motion at sea, but I don't recall this being done as a matter of course. The bridge was of course raised again to let us out, and very soon we had rounded the Ellis & Everard corner and were back out into the Thames, Rodney at the helm. It was evening time, probably about 9pm
Rodney took her down through the Woolwich Barrier, which was still very new in those days, and on down to Tilbury, where Dud took his turn. I was trying to get some sleep in my bunk, but it seemed only minutes before the foc's'le bell rang, telling me it was ten minutes until I was due on. Sleep, or chronic lack of it, was the cruellest feature of being a Swin Ranger. I reckoned I got between two and four hours sleep in every twenty four, and I have always been pathetic if sleep-deprived, so I found that aspect very difficlut to live with, and thus the weekend became a sleepfest, with at least two twelve hour sleep periods.
It was the Blacktail Spit buoy where I took over, but it being my first trip, I wondered if Dud would stay with me. He knew I knew the Swin channel, so without a word, and with inherent trust, he went for'ard, leaving me with the dark, the flashing buoys, a chart and a wheelhouse light. I was in heaven and heaven above looked beautiful.
I learned to drive barges a couple of years before, and knew the fundamental rule well; that is, just give her a spoke or two, and she'll answer soon enough. The common mistake that the novice makes is turning tentatively, deciding too quickly that she isn't answering, and then give her a whole revolution of the wheel. Then she careens round, whilst you give it two turns the other way, and there is a crazy path left in the water and great embarrassment for the rookie helm. So I was able to conduct my sea trials as I was alone for the first time, timing how long she took to answer to one spoke, different either side, interestingly. I also brushed up on my chartwork, putting her on course and having a good look round for sea room, then turning the wheelhouse light on to work out compass courses between the Swin buoys and correcting them for variation and deviation. One one later occasion, I steered a compass course on a black night from the Wallet Spitway to the Bar Bouy at the mouth of the Colne. Quite remarkably, and I promise this is true, but as late as 1980, the turning mark for commercial shipping heading up Colne was not lit! Unbelievable, doubly so as less important buoys such as the North West Knoll and Eagle were lit, but true. That made my compass course all the more dangerous, and as I had timed the three mile leg from the Wallet Spitway, I was both relieved and alarmed to see the Bar buoy slip past the starb'd rail no further than a barge's length away. The buoy bore the scars of being clouted by bigger vessels than ours, and I'm glad to say it was lit soon after, and of course remains lit to this day.
So, I charged down the Swin with the ebb still under me, shaped up from Whittaker to cross the Crouch and rounded the Swin Spitway. As we were light, there was no depth trobles, but I still studied the echo sounder trace with a need to know just where the Spitway was at its shallowest. When I rounded the Wallet Spitway, I rang the foc's'le bell to stir Rodney for the last few yards from the Bar up to the ballast quay. It was now a pleasant early summer morning, low sun and little breeze, as I rounded the Bar. I shaped her up for Brightlingsea, but there was no sign of Rodney. I figured he was making a brew, but still there was no sign when I passed the Inner Bench Head buoy, so I put the helm on lock and shot for'ard and down the companionway ladder. There was Rodney, fast asleep in his berth.........
And that is the finest compliment I have ever been paid. I wasn't told of it until later, and then only by Dud, as it seemed Rodney was a compulsive worrier, and would never sleep when a new hand was aboard until he was sure he could trust them, and even then he would sleep lightly and notice even the smallest change in teh ship's motion. And there he was, fast asleep on my first trick, I felt ten feet tall.
We rounded onto the berth, tied up, and what happened then I remember not. All I knew was that when payday came around, I received riches untold, and as I was on student rate tax, I was paid more than Dud. He was absolutely furious!
I do pine for those simple days, and keep promising myself I will look up Rodney in Mersea one of these days, God willing he's still with us, as sadly Dudley isn't........... but I'll save his story for another day.
And finally, I was gratified to Google Prior's, and found them to be alive, well and seemingly thriving at http://www.jj-prior.co.uk/index.php?content=welcome
Good luck to them!
Sunday 13 January 2008
Wagamama
I called in on Sam at Manchester uni on the way back down from the Lakes, and gave him the choice of dining places. I had enjoyed a 5,000 calorie artery-furrer breakfast at High Cross, and didn't have much appetite, but he opted for Wagamama in the city centre.
I hadn't even heard of this chain before, but for the uninitiated, it's a Japanese nosh house, and very splendid it was too
It was made all the more pleasant for meeting Sam's new SO, the lovely Laura, who combines beauty with being frighteningly intelligent.
I like Manchester
I hadn't even heard of this chain before, but for the uninitiated, it's a Japanese nosh house, and very splendid it was too
It was made all the more pleasant for meeting Sam's new SO, the lovely Laura, who combines beauty with being frighteningly intelligent.
I like Manchester
A dreek day in Buttermere
We were supposed to go up on Thursday, but life got on top of us a bit, so just I headed north west to the Northern Lakes. I had a new supplier/customer to visit in Blindcrake, north east of Cockermouth, and it was dark when I arrived for that meeting, a splendid 90 minutes late, entirely putting to death the resolution of punctuality I vowed at the beginning of this year.
Bouyed up by a really useful meeting, I fired up the SatNav and picked my way through the comically named Cockermouth, before heading south for Loweswater. That is the location of two wonderful adjoining farmhouses called High Cross and the Long House. They were bought by Pauls & Whites Social Club way back when, and as I worked for a subsidiary company back in the 90s, we're on the list of 'trusties' who can rent these super places for next to nothing.
Despite a dreadful signal, I managed most of the Archers before arriving to be greeted by Steve and Lea, our best mates from the glory days in Somerset. Steve still works for BOCM Pauls and he had bagged the two houses for the weekend and filled them with family and friends, and Friday night was a fine night of wining, dining and music making.
Saturday, however, dawned late and dark, with very low cloud taking out the top of Low Fell and with it our chances of going aloft, safely at any rate. So it was lake yomping, and crikey, was it a long one. Steve is a nutter when it comes to the great outdoors, so off we marched, suited, booted and a carrier bag full of Kendall Mint Cake (well, Mars bars, much more appetizing).
We dropped down to the river beneath Scale Hill, and then turned south along the eastern shore of Crummock Water. The cobrador was showing too much interest in a recently butchered badger, but at least she resisted her usual urge to roll in the rotting stomach that had been opened. The stench was indescribable, and stayed with us downwind for an uncomfortably long time. We then walked the length of Rannerdale, right up to the saddle above Buttermere, and then dropped down into the village. I investigated the bus timetable for the return trip, but was floored to find out the bus needed booking the day previous. Looking around for a taxi rank seemed inappropriate, and Steve wasn't allowing us into the Fish Hotel (what an imaginative name!) as it was already 13.30 and the daylight that hadn't ever truly materialized was due to fail before we got back to Loweswater unless we got a move on, which we did.
The rout out of Buttermere took us nearly a mile in the direction we didn't want to go, but needs must, as we needed to cross the southern end of Crummock before we could turn north and breast Mellbreak at lakeside level. The walking was surprisingly rough, and as everyone was getting tired, it was prime time for an ankle twist. I am Captain Paranoia about ankles, having busted mine last April in a fit of overconfidence, and the mended bone stood up to the yomp remarkably well.
The last leg was tough going, despite the lack of climbing, but the lure of the Kirkstile Inn was the accelerant, which we finally made it to at 15.15, when the real business of the day began, and we were in for a session. Several glasses later, it was the last half mile back to High Cross, and I felt like I had a leg transplant in the pub. Gone were the aching limbs that staggered painfully up the last hill to the pub, but then I had shipped aboard enough anesthetic to dull an amputation. It's today I'm paying the price.
Bouyed up by a really useful meeting, I fired up the SatNav and picked my way through the comically named Cockermouth, before heading south for Loweswater. That is the location of two wonderful adjoining farmhouses called High Cross and the Long House. They were bought by Pauls & Whites Social Club way back when, and as I worked for a subsidiary company back in the 90s, we're on the list of 'trusties' who can rent these super places for next to nothing.
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Despite a dreadful signal, I managed most of the Archers before arriving to be greeted by Steve and Lea, our best mates from the glory days in Somerset. Steve still works for BOCM Pauls and he had bagged the two houses for the weekend and filled them with family and friends, and Friday night was a fine night of wining, dining and music making.
Saturday, however, dawned late and dark, with very low cloud taking out the top of Low Fell and with it our chances of going aloft, safely at any rate. So it was lake yomping, and crikey, was it a long one. Steve is a nutter when it comes to the great outdoors, so off we marched, suited, booted and a carrier bag full of Kendall Mint Cake (well, Mars bars, much more appetizing).
We dropped down to the river beneath Scale Hill, and then turned south along the eastern shore of Crummock Water. The cobrador was showing too much interest in a recently butchered badger, but at least she resisted her usual urge to roll in the rotting stomach that had been opened. The stench was indescribable, and stayed with us downwind for an uncomfortably long time. We then walked the length of Rannerdale, right up to the saddle above Buttermere, and then dropped down into the village. I investigated the bus timetable for the return trip, but was floored to find out the bus needed booking the day previous. Looking around for a taxi rank seemed inappropriate, and Steve wasn't allowing us into the Fish Hotel (what an imaginative name!) as it was already 13.30 and the daylight that hadn't ever truly materialized was due to fail before we got back to Loweswater unless we got a move on, which we did.
The rout out of Buttermere took us nearly a mile in the direction we didn't want to go, but needs must, as we needed to cross the southern end of Crummock before we could turn north and breast Mellbreak at lakeside level. The walking was surprisingly rough, and as everyone was getting tired, it was prime time for an ankle twist. I am Captain Paranoia about ankles, having busted mine last April in a fit of overconfidence, and the mended bone stood up to the yomp remarkably well.
The last leg was tough going, despite the lack of climbing, but the lure of the Kirkstile Inn was the accelerant, which we finally made it to at 15.15, when the real business of the day began, and we were in for a session. Several glasses later, it was the last half mile back to High Cross, and I felt like I had a leg transplant in the pub. Gone were the aching limbs that staggered painfully up the last hill to the pub, but then I had shipped aboard enough anesthetic to dull an amputation. It's today I'm paying the price.
Wednesday 9 January 2008
500 miles today
I'm getting too old for these 500 mile days. I left Barrow at some time before 8am and had a hassle free trip down to Portishead for a meeting of Bristol Corn and Feed Trade Association, which straddled a fairly decent pub lunch. The nice thing was this view
The trip back wasn't too bad, either, and not too bad a carbon footprint, with the new Golf averaging 52mpg. One problem was the northbound M42 was closed to the east of Brum, so I had to bash on down the M40, skirt Coventry and then head north east on the M69. Gawd, how anorakky is that? Still, I was back in the office for 5.30pm, so not much time was lost.
The trip back wasn't too bad, either, and not too bad a carbon footprint, with the new Golf averaging 52mpg. One problem was the northbound M42 was closed to the east of Brum, so I had to bash on down the M40, skirt Coventry and then head north east on the M69. Gawd, how anorakky is that? Still, I was back in the office for 5.30pm, so not much time was lost.
My beautiful niece
My brilliant niece Jess came to stay last night. She is over in the UK for Christmas/New Year from her new home in Brunswick Heads, just north of my beloved Byron Bay. Jess and Ray, her partner, started their new life in Oz on 9th February 2004. The reason I remember this date so well is that they cleared off to Oz to start their new life when we chucked caution to the wind and started our own business, and we had a wild weekend in London immediately prior to our mass gambles.
The best bit of that weekend was going to see the stageshow of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and then having a massive blowout afterwards in Chinatown (at Lee Ho Fook's, of Werewolves of London fame). Happy days.
The best bit of that weekend was going to see the stageshow of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and then having a massive blowout afterwards in Chinatown (at Lee Ho Fook's, of Werewolves of London fame). Happy days.
First Monday
Every first Monday of the month, there is an occasionally brilliant tune session in what is my opinion the finest pub in Hull, the Black Boy, on the High Street. This month was a notably good one, as relatively few musos turned up, and the main benefit of that is that there is less, ahem, variation in the notes played.
Some devilishly strong brew from local brewery Tom Woods was slipping down very well and making the playing very fluid
It was, of course, an excuse to do some out-of-house drinking, and I rather enjoyed putting away 10 units, which gave me a pounding headache during an early morning gym session the following morning.
There were quite a few punters in, who seems genuinely appreciative of the scratching and banging, but as usual, the hollering went down best for the two songs that were permitted.
Some devilishly strong brew from local brewery Tom Woods was slipping down very well and making the playing very fluid
It was, of course, an excuse to do some out-of-house drinking, and I rather enjoyed putting away 10 units, which gave me a pounding headache during an early morning gym session the following morning.
There were quite a few punters in, who seems genuinely appreciative of the scratching and banging, but as usual, the hollering went down best for the two songs that were permitted.
Sunday 6 January 2008
Not Captain Corelli's
But mine. And thereby hangs a tale.
I was power-drinking with my dipso and allround good guy brother-in-law in Montmartre one winter Saturday afternoon, the sort of dangerous time, when the shops are still open after chucking-out time, and musicians both, we fell on the idea of a little light window shopping in the Guitar Quarter. It was a runaway success of an idea to stop me buying another guitar by only looking at things with eight strings. Surely I wouldn't buy a hammered dulcimer, a bombarde or a harp. And then I saw it........
....... and I sat all through the posh dinner with the damn thing hidden under the table to keep it from the memsahib as long as possible. It came to light at Charles de Gaulle airport, but fortunately I had that nice Bonnie Tyler sitting next to me in Departures, which curbed a lot of the invective.
Bas Cuisine
The problem with being probably the best chef in the world is finding anyone to acknowledge that blindingly obvious fact.
I broke my alco-fast this afternoon, and went and took a glass of ale with Oakley, and very agreeable it was too. I was so overcome with wellbeing on the way home that I slipped under the descending shutter door of the local supermarche and beat the 4 o'clock Sunday curfew, and rapidly heaved five quid's worth of steak mince and a plastic sack of spuds into the basket.
I hit the cooker immediately on my return home, having located it (brilliance can be dulled by over-familiarity) and made the wonderful repast pictured here. I apologize for the culinary Tourettes, I often write rude words in my creations, but the cheddar glaze hid the profanity from a hungry family, and it was dispatched with undue speed, with the critics saving their spleen for the post-supper critique that confirmed that Dunn Towers was not being awarded a third Michelin star by the inmates. Bastards.
I broke my alco-fast this afternoon, and went and took a glass of ale with Oakley, and very agreeable it was too. I was so overcome with wellbeing on the way home that I slipped under the descending shutter door of the local supermarche and beat the 4 o'clock Sunday curfew, and rapidly heaved five quid's worth of steak mince and a plastic sack of spuds into the basket.
I hit the cooker immediately on my return home, having located it (brilliance can be dulled by over-familiarity) and made the wonderful repast pictured here. I apologize for the culinary Tourettes, I often write rude words in my creations, but the cheddar glaze hid the profanity from a hungry family, and it was dispatched with undue speed, with the critics saving their spleen for the post-supper critique that confirmed that Dunn Towers was not being awarded a third Michelin star by the inmates. Bastards.
Saturday 5 January 2008
New Smack Site
Saw this whilst surfing for the old Alberta CK318 site, a very odd sight of an Essex smack with a German flag on her counter. Here is a taster from the site
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Things that keep me awake at night......
Why does the winner of Miss Universe always come from Earth?
Does a tanker full of helium weigh less when it is loaded that when the tanker is empty?
How does the snowplough driver drive to work?
And that's only last night........
Does a tanker full of helium weigh less when it is loaded that when the tanker is empty?
How does the snowplough driver drive to work?
And that's only last night........
Connie the Cobrador
We have already established Oakley is wise in all things, and the naming of the Dunn family dog saw no dilution of his wit and wisdom. Connie is the result of a night of unlicensed passion enjoyed by two beautiful pedigree dogs (I'm not a dog person - I know one's a bitch, but it spoils the scan). Sadly, they weren't the same pedigree, and soon the bump began to show on her Long Haired Golden Retriever mother, whilst her Collie father was nowhere to be seen. Oakley used the license we afford to comic genii to overlook that a Retriever ain't a Labrador to come up with the handle that she is known by for streets around - Connie the Cobrador
Connie was born in a litter of only two on 20th June 2000, a very convenient year for remembering how old she is. She was born in high Mendip, in beautiful Somerset. At eight weeks, she clawed, bit and urinated all over my then seven year old daughter for the duration of a five hour Bank Holiday journey from motorway hell all the way up to the Former People's Republic of Humberside, to hide under the kitchen table rather than meet her new family. When she did come out, her reign of terror began, the major casualties being three pine doors completed eaten through and every wellington boot the family possessed, which was as ironic as biting the hand that feeds, given wellies equals walkies.
Whilst Connie doesn't do irony, she is remarkably intelligent, which I can only put down to Hybrid Vigour (I once saw that printed on a Nickerson's cereal seed bag in my seed merchant days, and have stored it until now, sure it would come in useful, lobbed into conversation one day). As already stated, I ain't a dog man. Despite my farm background, I am surprisingly a cat man. We had three cats in my childhood; Wally (named after Walter Clarke of Station Road, Tollesbury, whose kind bequest of a kitten was greeted with less enthusiasm by my parents!), Baggy (the one I named, after Bagheera in my still favourite film, Walt Disney's Jungle Book), and their progeny (or that is what we hoped, although Wally seemed a bit dim) was crowned Chairman Mousey Dunn (work on that one a bit, think Great March and Sino-dictator) as she was always in my father's chair. Sorry, back on message - Mongrels? Clever things. Pedigree? Interbred thickoes.
Time for you to see the good woman, herself, as I attempt to glue my first picture to this page:-
Oh, that's odd, they've appeared at the top
Friday 4 January 2008
Detox - Take Two
I am sitting here reading all the indescribably bad shite that goes into Diet Caffeine Free (disclaimer - insert cola drink name of your imagination here). What am I doing to myself? Draw up a chair and I'll let on..........
I am a Roman Catholic. A practicing left footer. Again, there's enough luggage there to jam the bandwidth of the information superhighway, but I mention it solely to bring up the subject of Lent. Every year, I go absolutely banzai and give up shedloads of stuff I genuinely love and cannot live without. And you know what? Yes, it has absolutely zippo to do with JC's temptations in the desert, that is stuff for the mind, not to be mimicked in body. Nope, it is the only time of year, all 46.5 days of it (my mum said it ends at midday on Holy Saturday, and she's in heaven now) that I can fairly say I am in control of my addictions, which I have now whittled down to two - alcohol and proper coffee.
I actually enjoy Lent when I get the hang of it. I also enjoy looking forward to it, as I find my year starts on Easter Sunday, and I start my precious habits slowly and responsibly. It takes until Mersea Week in August to start getting battered seriously again, a process that usually starts with a post race drink on board, and then ramps up in West Mersea Yacht Club in the apres-race analysis. The next big festival for alcoholic over-indulgence is of course Christmas, and then during the run up to Ash Wednesday, I positively ache to give up the sauce.
The first year I gave up the booze was unmitigated hell for the whole 46 days. I was a social leper, avoiding going to the pub at all costs for fear of my defences being breached, I cut myself off from friends and family gatherings and moped (that's a funny word to type, sounds like the family motorbike!) around the house in me slippers. What put the hell into perfect perspective was starting drinking again on Easter Sunday, and finding how weird drink tastes. I found beer the worst, posh bottled lagers tasted unpleasantly metallic. Consequently, I drank much more moderately, and my slow decline into over-indulgence left me with the memory that being dry felt good.
And being dry does feel good. I sleep like a baby, need an hour less each night, and feel massively more energetic when I wake. I always describe myself as coming off the bed like a long dog. The whites of my eyes are whiter, approaching white, I lose weight and I generally combine it with a get-fit campaign. To paraphrase Gene Hackman in one of his less celebrated roles, 'I could rip the ass out of an elephant'.
So what's all this joining in with the atheists, detoxing on January 2nd? The answer, dear reader, is that I haven't given up the sauce, not entirely.
What worried me was a report in the broadsheet press about middle class drinking at home. I calculated I was wiping out an annual figure dangerously close to three hundred bottles of red wine or equivalent. That is a liver-bursting amount, certainly health-threatening, and I'm otherwise proud of a year in the gym and a good basic level of all-round fitness. So it has/had to stop.
So I analysed why I drink. The biggest reason is for social ease. There is nothing I enjoy more than having a snifter with friends, that delicious feeling when the alcohol first delivers its calming wave. Answer - Only drink in social situations. No nighttime glass on the desk whilst tapping away at the VOIP connection with the office, or indeed typing this.
So I thought I'd give it a go. Another factor is the unusually early Easter this year. Anyone bearing the name of the calendar decreed by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 knows that Easter Sunday falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox, or March 21st. I think I'm right in saying that Easter can be no earlier than this year, 2008, and I am struggling to find the last year it was celebrated on Sunday 23rd March, great though the power of Wikipedia is. My thinking is that Ash Wednesday is going to be around the 9th February this year, so if I rein in my drinking ahead of that, it will be the easiest year ever.
The real problem with this is perennial. My birthday. March the sodding 1st. A nine in ten chance of being within Lent every year. What the hell.
So, tonight is day three of leaving the booze alone, two nights of wonderfully restorative sleep and easy waking, and the prospect of another tonight. Might nip down the pub tomorrow night for a couple, and my dear neice Jess is coming on Monday, so that's a big night out, but if only I can keep this not drinking at home up until Ash Wednesday, then the chances of continuing the new regimen after Easter portend well.
So I raise my delicious Not Coke in a toast to finer living!! Salut!
I am a Roman Catholic. A practicing left footer. Again, there's enough luggage there to jam the bandwidth of the information superhighway, but I mention it solely to bring up the subject of Lent. Every year, I go absolutely banzai and give up shedloads of stuff I genuinely love and cannot live without. And you know what? Yes, it has absolutely zippo to do with JC's temptations in the desert, that is stuff for the mind, not to be mimicked in body. Nope, it is the only time of year, all 46.5 days of it (my mum said it ends at midday on Holy Saturday, and she's in heaven now) that I can fairly say I am in control of my addictions, which I have now whittled down to two - alcohol and proper coffee.
I actually enjoy Lent when I get the hang of it. I also enjoy looking forward to it, as I find my year starts on Easter Sunday, and I start my precious habits slowly and responsibly. It takes until Mersea Week in August to start getting battered seriously again, a process that usually starts with a post race drink on board, and then ramps up in West Mersea Yacht Club in the apres-race analysis. The next big festival for alcoholic over-indulgence is of course Christmas, and then during the run up to Ash Wednesday, I positively ache to give up the sauce.
The first year I gave up the booze was unmitigated hell for the whole 46 days. I was a social leper, avoiding going to the pub at all costs for fear of my defences being breached, I cut myself off from friends and family gatherings and moped (that's a funny word to type, sounds like the family motorbike!) around the house in me slippers. What put the hell into perfect perspective was starting drinking again on Easter Sunday, and finding how weird drink tastes. I found beer the worst, posh bottled lagers tasted unpleasantly metallic. Consequently, I drank much more moderately, and my slow decline into over-indulgence left me with the memory that being dry felt good.
And being dry does feel good. I sleep like a baby, need an hour less each night, and feel massively more energetic when I wake. I always describe myself as coming off the bed like a long dog. The whites of my eyes are whiter, approaching white, I lose weight and I generally combine it with a get-fit campaign. To paraphrase Gene Hackman in one of his less celebrated roles, 'I could rip the ass out of an elephant'.
So what's all this joining in with the atheists, detoxing on January 2nd? The answer, dear reader, is that I haven't given up the sauce, not entirely.
What worried me was a report in the broadsheet press about middle class drinking at home. I calculated I was wiping out an annual figure dangerously close to three hundred bottles of red wine or equivalent. That is a liver-bursting amount, certainly health-threatening, and I'm otherwise proud of a year in the gym and a good basic level of all-round fitness. So it has/had to stop.
So I analysed why I drink. The biggest reason is for social ease. There is nothing I enjoy more than having a snifter with friends, that delicious feeling when the alcohol first delivers its calming wave. Answer - Only drink in social situations. No nighttime glass on the desk whilst tapping away at the VOIP connection with the office, or indeed typing this.
So I thought I'd give it a go. Another factor is the unusually early Easter this year. Anyone bearing the name of the calendar decreed by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 knows that Easter Sunday falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox, or March 21st. I think I'm right in saying that Easter can be no earlier than this year, 2008, and I am struggling to find the last year it was celebrated on Sunday 23rd March, great though the power of Wikipedia is. My thinking is that Ash Wednesday is going to be around the 9th February this year, so if I rein in my drinking ahead of that, it will be the easiest year ever.
The real problem with this is perennial. My birthday. March the sodding 1st. A nine in ten chance of being within Lent every year. What the hell.
So, tonight is day three of leaving the booze alone, two nights of wonderfully restorative sleep and easy waking, and the prospect of another tonight. Might nip down the pub tomorrow night for a couple, and my dear neice Jess is coming on Monday, so that's a big night out, but if only I can keep this not drinking at home up until Ash Wednesday, then the chances of continuing the new regimen after Easter portend well.
So I raise my delicious Not Coke in a toast to finer living!! Salut!
One London, Two Boat Shows
It's that time of short days being spent dreaming of long days, otherwise known as The London Boat Show, when an idyllic construct of a Mediterranean quayside is erected in Earl's Court, complete with equatorial temperatures endured wearing Inuit-specked thermals. Why, they even have the ubiquitous Irish bar (otherwise known as the Irish Embassy) in the form of the Guinness stand, where I have always spent an inordinate amount of time, on one occasion it was the only thing I managed to do.
That's the way it is. Or at least the way it was, until a couple of years ago. Exhibitors got fed up with small stand footprints and exorbitant charges, just at the time that the dreadful ExCel was touting for all exhibitia south of the NEC, and the totally soulless experience of the New London Boatshow was born. The overheated delights of Earl's Court were replaced with air conditioned space, rather too much of it, in Docklands, miles from anywhere that isn't mega-expensive on-site parking.
I should state my extreme prejudice concerning Docklands right now; in the 70s, I used to punch aggregate up the London River (barge-speak for the Thames) in an old motor barge. It was in the early days of building the M25, and the project had an insatiable demand for ready-mixed concrete. The easiest way to move the aggregate into London was by barge from seabed dredgers or the quarry at Fingringhoe that my barge worked from. There were seven plants that had jetties or quays that landed the aggregate, mixed the spec required, and the consignment was delivered out to the mother of all motorway hell by lorries with revolving barrels. I'll save the stories of those days (which are many) for another day, but suffice to say that the London River was very different in those days of decay, just on the cusp of the Thatcherite revolution, and I loved it that way. All those beautiful dilapidated warehouses on wharves and in the derelict docks had such a charm that was lost the day the redevelopment started. Call it yuppie envy if you like, it probably is, but I genuinely loath seeing the steel and glass palaces that replaced the wood and brick bosom of the Empire.
So, I don't like Docklands, and I set my hat against the new venue for the Boat Show long before I started to work out how the hell to get there. I went once, loathed it on principle, left early in the happiness of finding it predictably disagreeable.
Imagine my delight to find that a breakaway faction mounted the Earl's Court Boat Show in the early days of December 2007, and my frustration that a various coming-together of immovable circumstances guaranteed I couldn't attend. And the crying shame is that neither did many others, as it seems to have been poorly advertised, and potential exhibitors were allegedly frightened by the bully-boy ExCel show organisers worried about diluted attendance figures. There is talk of a sponsorship deal having been secured for next year, but don't hold your breath.
Now for the humble pie. As I missed Earl's Court, and because the 200 year old Mersea smack Boadicea has been hauled into the Classic Boat magazine stand, I'll turn to for a couple of hours and give the ghastly shed another chance. Also, an author I am fond of, Sam Llewellyn (the Dick Francis of the sea) is lecturing, so I'll try and hit town that day. I'll report back.
That's the way it is. Or at least the way it was, until a couple of years ago. Exhibitors got fed up with small stand footprints and exorbitant charges, just at the time that the dreadful ExCel was touting for all exhibitia south of the NEC, and the totally soulless experience of the New London Boatshow was born. The overheated delights of Earl's Court were replaced with air conditioned space, rather too much of it, in Docklands, miles from anywhere that isn't mega-expensive on-site parking.
I should state my extreme prejudice concerning Docklands right now; in the 70s, I used to punch aggregate up the London River (barge-speak for the Thames) in an old motor barge. It was in the early days of building the M25, and the project had an insatiable demand for ready-mixed concrete. The easiest way to move the aggregate into London was by barge from seabed dredgers or the quarry at Fingringhoe that my barge worked from. There were seven plants that had jetties or quays that landed the aggregate, mixed the spec required, and the consignment was delivered out to the mother of all motorway hell by lorries with revolving barrels. I'll save the stories of those days (which are many) for another day, but suffice to say that the London River was very different in those days of decay, just on the cusp of the Thatcherite revolution, and I loved it that way. All those beautiful dilapidated warehouses on wharves and in the derelict docks had such a charm that was lost the day the redevelopment started. Call it yuppie envy if you like, it probably is, but I genuinely loath seeing the steel and glass palaces that replaced the wood and brick bosom of the Empire.
So, I don't like Docklands, and I set my hat against the new venue for the Boat Show long before I started to work out how the hell to get there. I went once, loathed it on principle, left early in the happiness of finding it predictably disagreeable.
Imagine my delight to find that a breakaway faction mounted the Earl's Court Boat Show in the early days of December 2007, and my frustration that a various coming-together of immovable circumstances guaranteed I couldn't attend. And the crying shame is that neither did many others, as it seems to have been poorly advertised, and potential exhibitors were allegedly frightened by the bully-boy ExCel show organisers worried about diluted attendance figures. There is talk of a sponsorship deal having been secured for next year, but don't hold your breath.
Now for the humble pie. As I missed Earl's Court, and because the 200 year old Mersea smack Boadicea has been hauled into the Classic Boat magazine stand, I'll turn to for a couple of hours and give the ghastly shed another chance. Also, an author I am fond of, Sam Llewellyn (the Dick Francis of the sea) is lecturing, so I'll try and hit town that day. I'll report back.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
Last Night's Fun
All the bacchanalian excesses of old New Year's seemed to be enjoyed on the Eve, going into the Day, but not this year. Sitting in with cocoa and slippers (well, not exactly, an absolutely stonking bottle of six year old claret, and glad rags on in case anyone invited me to a party at the last minute), it was a pleasure to see the new year in with a new and vastly improved cuddly Kylie on Jools Holland's Hootenannay thrash on the electric television. I much prefer Kylie's new real-woman's bum to the bony, much-photographed affair that helped the good woman back into stardom this century.
Aaah, Kylie; takes me back to my first visit to Australia, when they were celebrating the Bicentennial in '88. We found out the shocking news that 'Charlene' had upped and left Neighbours whilst the good old UK audience, mostly male, were getting lumpy trousers every time Kylie rubbed grease into those gorgeous cheeks, wriggled into her boiler suit and played toyfully with her ratchet spanner. The real shocker on that trip was finding out that Prisoner Cell Block H had ceased production, whilst it was still cult viewing and very much alive in the UK, albeit about four years behind. Nasty Ferguson, or the 'Freak' as her customers knew her as was already doing the post-Prisoner chart show rounds there, and the programme wasn't feted anywhere near as much as in the UK.
Other highlights of that trip were staying in the Spike Milligan Suite of the Woy Woy Motel. Woy Woy is so good they named it twice. Also, nearly drowning in the undertow on the beach at Terrigal, where we also saw a minibus that without a hint of sarcasm declared itself to be the property of 'The Australian League of Old Bastards'.
The only downside of that trip was the pommie-bashing that we were exposed to, on two occasions. I was delighted to find that when we returned two years ago for Christmas 2005, we were treated with nothing but courtesy and friendliness. True, we were up in the tourist belt this time, in the unbelievably beautiful environs of Byron Bay, rather than the suburbs of Sydney, but it felt a different country, much more at ease with itself than first impressions. One thing I noted on the first trip and was glad to see had receded the second time was the use of the word 'Australian', sometimes in every sentence - the raw national pride of an emergent nation - usually on television, when the eponymous label was attached wherever possible. Example - the BBC introduces the weather forecast 'and here is the weather forecast'. The Aussie version was 'and now we have the weather for Australia tomorrow'. A silly example perhaps, but a real example. It was as though the more times one could say the word, the more one swore allegiance to the country, a bit like the very noticeable presence of the Stars & Stripes on every building in that country. Anyway, pleased to say that that facet of Australian self awareness seems to have given way to a more comfortable identity.
What wouldn't I give to be back on Tallow Beach right now, 45 degrees, up to my waist in the warm milk of the Pacific. The old SAD has really kicked in this winter, which was bound to happen having tasted the forbidden fruit of Winter Sun. Still, a few more winters at the grindstone for me yet.......
......which brings me back to Last Night's Fun. Not the excellent band from Sligo, but some of the music of that fair country, as last night we had our weekly traditional music session at our local pub. As the evening started with an excellent curry with my good friend Simon Styles, Barrow's principal penny whistle manufacturer, good cheer had already started flowing, and between then and being emptied out of the pub at 1am, I realised that both my fiddle playing and detox programme had gone to hell in a handbasket. Having successfully retoxed, my head has been pounding all day. A half-life of six hours is a new record for resolution-busting for me.
Aaah, Kylie; takes me back to my first visit to Australia, when they were celebrating the Bicentennial in '88. We found out the shocking news that 'Charlene' had upped and left Neighbours whilst the good old UK audience, mostly male, were getting lumpy trousers every time Kylie rubbed grease into those gorgeous cheeks, wriggled into her boiler suit and played toyfully with her ratchet spanner. The real shocker on that trip was finding out that Prisoner Cell Block H had ceased production, whilst it was still cult viewing and very much alive in the UK, albeit about four years behind. Nasty Ferguson, or the 'Freak' as her customers knew her as was already doing the post-Prisoner chart show rounds there, and the programme wasn't feted anywhere near as much as in the UK.
Other highlights of that trip were staying in the Spike Milligan Suite of the Woy Woy Motel. Woy Woy is so good they named it twice. Also, nearly drowning in the undertow on the beach at Terrigal, where we also saw a minibus that without a hint of sarcasm declared itself to be the property of 'The Australian League of Old Bastards'.
The only downside of that trip was the pommie-bashing that we were exposed to, on two occasions. I was delighted to find that when we returned two years ago for Christmas 2005, we were treated with nothing but courtesy and friendliness. True, we were up in the tourist belt this time, in the unbelievably beautiful environs of Byron Bay, rather than the suburbs of Sydney, but it felt a different country, much more at ease with itself than first impressions. One thing I noted on the first trip and was glad to see had receded the second time was the use of the word 'Australian', sometimes in every sentence - the raw national pride of an emergent nation - usually on television, when the eponymous label was attached wherever possible. Example - the BBC introduces the weather forecast 'and here is the weather forecast'. The Aussie version was 'and now we have the weather for Australia tomorrow'. A silly example perhaps, but a real example. It was as though the more times one could say the word, the more one swore allegiance to the country, a bit like the very noticeable presence of the Stars & Stripes on every building in that country. Anyway, pleased to say that that facet of Australian self awareness seems to have given way to a more comfortable identity.
What wouldn't I give to be back on Tallow Beach right now, 45 degrees, up to my waist in the warm milk of the Pacific. The old SAD has really kicked in this winter, which was bound to happen having tasted the forbidden fruit of Winter Sun. Still, a few more winters at the grindstone for me yet.......
......which brings me back to Last Night's Fun. Not the excellent band from Sligo, but some of the music of that fair country, as last night we had our weekly traditional music session at our local pub. As the evening started with an excellent curry with my good friend Simon Styles, Barrow's principal penny whistle manufacturer, good cheer had already started flowing, and between then and being emptied out of the pub at 1am, I realised that both my fiddle playing and detox programme had gone to hell in a handbasket. Having successfully retoxed, my head has been pounding all day. A half-life of six hours is a new record for resolution-busting for me.
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