Zoof
New Member
- Location
- Manchester
Bikes, Steam, Pistols and good Ale
The music started to play, getting louder and louder, my hand reached out and silenced the phone.
6 am, dam: time to get up, so I pulled on the old cycling kit, drank some tea and departed at 7.
I arrived at Stockport Station in plenty of time; got the ticket and found the lift was working; so far the day was going well.
At Altrincham two lads got on with bikes, “Delamere I inquired” two nod's, so we jiggled the bikes around to make more room.
I prognosticated with the news of an old paper, that made use of the remaining time, before we trundled into Chester station.
With all four Panniers attached; I hung about at the bottom of the gantry steps.
Two workmen appeared contractors, good, “Hi guys can you give me a lift up the steps, please, you ain’t replaced the lift yet.”
This is sneaky because they work for a Japanese firm; they get morning exercise, and a pep talk on being a good worker,
and told to help the public, during the reconstruction.
They duly obliged, and I was quickly on my way, if you are listening: thanks lads.
At the end of the road it's a left and left, onto the canal tow-path a good way out of the Chester centre.
As you go under the new concrete railway bridge, you just go off left, and down the hill to Hoole park.
In the park the smell of ozone, begins to filter into your nostrils, then as I reach the River trail; the bike suddenly reared up and I was away.
Looking down at the Dee, I noticed it was going backwards, and carrying a lot of debris.
This would probably mean a headwind in my face soon.
The grass had not been cut for a while, so by now it was four feet high.
Then as I reached the sharp dogleg in the path, a near disaster ; a trike's progress; hidden by the tall grass; suddenly flashes past.
Cat like reactions; and all I hear is, snick-kar-snick-snick as something brushed along my panniers.
This was just plain stupid, because the closing speed was over 35 MPH.
I just put the blame on a typical, spotty youth; because I must have been very visible, above the tall weeds and grass!
Thud-thud-rattle-thud-squeak, was all I heard on Shotton rail-bridge.
If you fell though it; you would quickly become a mud-skipper.
Then turned down, and a round under the bridge and along the river trail.
There's two white porter-cabins next to the railway, I went in for breakfast.
Before she just had a buttyvan, now you can sit down and read a paper or two.
Then on along by the power station, down the footpath, and then bump back onto the main road.
On to Flint, past Greenfield then my old ship, just pop's into view at Llanerch-y-mor.
It's the old steam packet boat from Liverpool to Holyhead, calling at Llandudno and Menai.
I always stop and stare at the sad beast; but some days I get flash-back's.
Echoing voices all around; the soft thud of feet on the steel deck.
The smell of grease and oil carried aloft; by the menacing, slowly hissing steam.
The clang of my shovel, on the boiler doors, and the heat on my face, when they swung open.
The cries and curses of shipmates, as hot coals spat back at you, from a fiery hell!
For a few months I was a hard drinking cursing and grimy, coal eating stoker.
With the crushing-hard work, your body could only survived it, if your spirit was strong,
made much stronger by the pooling of all our troubles.
The amazing thing was, I enjoyed it, for the first time I really felt alive and exuberant.
As soon as we docked, we were all in the Dog & claw, with a raging thirst.
I drank Bent's Garside's light mild, 18 pint's or so was common in the Dock pubs.
Later in the gent’s you may hear one of the older guy's, trying to coughing up the coal dust.
You would just go back and tell the lads, then one of his mates would go in and see to him.
If you where to say something, you may end up with a bang on the nose, for the older end could get quite tetchy at times.
Sometimes down at the Dog & claw, there would be a domestic.
The little wife would come down with somebody burnt dinner on a plate.
She would have no qualms about putting the boot in, to bring him down, in front of his mates!
So, everybody would just disappear into the snug; well it was embarrassing.
It generally ended up, with the crash of a thrown plate, and a pale face.
Sometimes we were to pissed to go home, “on a black-u'n” !
So we just crawled back on board and dossed down.
But in morning we had no escape, 32 tons of jet black coal, had to be fed to the 4 hungry lank’s.
The heat and work soon cleared the head; then food was the main sentiment, and lots of it!
If the Irish ferry was late in to Holyhead; it carried the Mail, so we just had to wait;
then we just swapped turns for the pub; sometimes we got in a 24-hour shift in, which lifted our pay.
The bad things: de-clinkering the boilers that was a bastard, all we had was a very long pokier, and solid rake.
First you would rake out the front, remembering to dance over the hot coals and molten slag.
Before the fumes got your throat, move the remnants of the fire over to one side.
Exposing the molten clinker, then lifting it up with the pokier, to break it up, this generally took two men.
Then rake it out, a bit a at a time, then move the fire back over the now exposed fire bars.
Of course repeating the operation on the other side; lastly just covering the fire with coal, and then opening the dampers full.
At Llandudno we had to help, to get out the extra long gangplank, that was a rough job in bad weather.
The Captain was called Johnson a right B***** drunk most of the time.
The mate wasn’t much better an ex Japanese POW; had a bad time; he was always telling us.
If the devil's got into his head he would walk around with a pistol cocked; claiming that there was a mutiny afoot.
The chief would just lock the engine-room hatch, with a No 23 spanner.
Then call the bridge and tell them to alert the Purser, who was good at talking him down, into a better state of mind.
In bad weather it was murder in the saloon bar, three inches deep in spew most of the time,
it just sloped about all over the place; people were lying about, just moaning and groaning.
This was generally, as we started into the estuary, going into Liverpool, particularly if the Mersey was in full flood.
The ship used to vibrate, shudder, and roll; crabbing from side to side, as it fought the currant, it was very unpleasant for all.
I used to drink six Pints’ of water every trip because it was around 33c in the Engine room.
We washed our kit by using a steam take-off pipe, a slow simmer into a bucket, better than Daz.
All this good fun for just £ 4.00 per trip, because you where just casual labour.
You could get a lot more money on the fishing boats, but they used to lose ten a year,
Old pre war boats knackered, fit only for scrap, kept running just to feed the country.
The ship well: it’s in a sad state now, mind you, it wasn’t much better when I was on board.
No money so every thing was hand to mouth so to speak.
Make do and mend was the order of the day, baring that; get it nicked for you, by one of the Dockers.
No cash change hands just free tickets.
Those were the days: real men in tough conditions: but still kind spirited.
Disclaimer: I am not making the mistake of saying this is true; because you will just turn it into a crime-scene.
It's an a tempt at something different, to try to change my writing style, due to enlightened criticism.
A slight bending of History, it's all fabricated, even the plate wasn’t thrown, (very far). Zoof
The music started to play, getting louder and louder, my hand reached out and silenced the phone.
6 am, dam: time to get up, so I pulled on the old cycling kit, drank some tea and departed at 7.
I arrived at Stockport Station in plenty of time; got the ticket and found the lift was working; so far the day was going well.
At Altrincham two lads got on with bikes, “Delamere I inquired” two nod's, so we jiggled the bikes around to make more room.
I prognosticated with the news of an old paper, that made use of the remaining time, before we trundled into Chester station.
With all four Panniers attached; I hung about at the bottom of the gantry steps.
Two workmen appeared contractors, good, “Hi guys can you give me a lift up the steps, please, you ain’t replaced the lift yet.”
This is sneaky because they work for a Japanese firm; they get morning exercise, and a pep talk on being a good worker,
and told to help the public, during the reconstruction.
They duly obliged, and I was quickly on my way, if you are listening: thanks lads.
At the end of the road it's a left and left, onto the canal tow-path a good way out of the Chester centre.
As you go under the new concrete railway bridge, you just go off left, and down the hill to Hoole park.
In the park the smell of ozone, begins to filter into your nostrils, then as I reach the River trail; the bike suddenly reared up and I was away.
Looking down at the Dee, I noticed it was going backwards, and carrying a lot of debris.
This would probably mean a headwind in my face soon.
The grass had not been cut for a while, so by now it was four feet high.
Then as I reached the sharp dogleg in the path, a near disaster ; a trike's progress; hidden by the tall grass; suddenly flashes past.
Cat like reactions; and all I hear is, snick-kar-snick-snick as something brushed along my panniers.
This was just plain stupid, because the closing speed was over 35 MPH.
I just put the blame on a typical, spotty youth; because I must have been very visible, above the tall weeds and grass!
Thud-thud-rattle-thud-squeak, was all I heard on Shotton rail-bridge.
If you fell though it; you would quickly become a mud-skipper.
Then turned down, and a round under the bridge and along the river trail.
There's two white porter-cabins next to the railway, I went in for breakfast.
Before she just had a buttyvan, now you can sit down and read a paper or two.
Then on along by the power station, down the footpath, and then bump back onto the main road.
On to Flint, past Greenfield then my old ship, just pop's into view at Llanerch-y-mor.
It's the old steam packet boat from Liverpool to Holyhead, calling at Llandudno and Menai.
I always stop and stare at the sad beast; but some days I get flash-back's.
Echoing voices all around; the soft thud of feet on the steel deck.
The smell of grease and oil carried aloft; by the menacing, slowly hissing steam.
The clang of my shovel, on the boiler doors, and the heat on my face, when they swung open.
The cries and curses of shipmates, as hot coals spat back at you, from a fiery hell!
For a few months I was a hard drinking cursing and grimy, coal eating stoker.
With the crushing-hard work, your body could only survived it, if your spirit was strong,
made much stronger by the pooling of all our troubles.
The amazing thing was, I enjoyed it, for the first time I really felt alive and exuberant.
As soon as we docked, we were all in the Dog & claw, with a raging thirst.
I drank Bent's Garside's light mild, 18 pint's or so was common in the Dock pubs.
Later in the gent’s you may hear one of the older guy's, trying to coughing up the coal dust.
You would just go back and tell the lads, then one of his mates would go in and see to him.
If you where to say something, you may end up with a bang on the nose, for the older end could get quite tetchy at times.
Sometimes down at the Dog & claw, there would be a domestic.
The little wife would come down with somebody burnt dinner on a plate.
She would have no qualms about putting the boot in, to bring him down, in front of his mates!
So, everybody would just disappear into the snug; well it was embarrassing.
It generally ended up, with the crash of a thrown plate, and a pale face.
Sometimes we were to pissed to go home, “on a black-u'n” !
So we just crawled back on board and dossed down.
But in morning we had no escape, 32 tons of jet black coal, had to be fed to the 4 hungry lank’s.
The heat and work soon cleared the head; then food was the main sentiment, and lots of it!
If the Irish ferry was late in to Holyhead; it carried the Mail, so we just had to wait;
then we just swapped turns for the pub; sometimes we got in a 24-hour shift in, which lifted our pay.
The bad things: de-clinkering the boilers that was a bastard, all we had was a very long pokier, and solid rake.
First you would rake out the front, remembering to dance over the hot coals and molten slag.
Before the fumes got your throat, move the remnants of the fire over to one side.
Exposing the molten clinker, then lifting it up with the pokier, to break it up, this generally took two men.
Then rake it out, a bit a at a time, then move the fire back over the now exposed fire bars.
Of course repeating the operation on the other side; lastly just covering the fire with coal, and then opening the dampers full.
At Llandudno we had to help, to get out the extra long gangplank, that was a rough job in bad weather.
The Captain was called Johnson a right B***** drunk most of the time.
The mate wasn’t much better an ex Japanese POW; had a bad time; he was always telling us.
If the devil's got into his head he would walk around with a pistol cocked; claiming that there was a mutiny afoot.
The chief would just lock the engine-room hatch, with a No 23 spanner.
Then call the bridge and tell them to alert the Purser, who was good at talking him down, into a better state of mind.
In bad weather it was murder in the saloon bar, three inches deep in spew most of the time,
it just sloped about all over the place; people were lying about, just moaning and groaning.
This was generally, as we started into the estuary, going into Liverpool, particularly if the Mersey was in full flood.
The ship used to vibrate, shudder, and roll; crabbing from side to side, as it fought the currant, it was very unpleasant for all.
I used to drink six Pints’ of water every trip because it was around 33c in the Engine room.
We washed our kit by using a steam take-off pipe, a slow simmer into a bucket, better than Daz.
All this good fun for just £ 4.00 per trip, because you where just casual labour.
You could get a lot more money on the fishing boats, but they used to lose ten a year,
Old pre war boats knackered, fit only for scrap, kept running just to feed the country.
The ship well: it’s in a sad state now, mind you, it wasn’t much better when I was on board.
No money so every thing was hand to mouth so to speak.
Make do and mend was the order of the day, baring that; get it nicked for you, by one of the Dockers.
No cash change hands just free tickets.
Those were the days: real men in tough conditions: but still kind spirited.
Disclaimer: I am not making the mistake of saying this is true; because you will just turn it into a crime-scene.
It's an a tempt at something different, to try to change my writing style, due to enlightened criticism.
A slight bending of History, it's all fabricated, even the plate wasn’t thrown, (very far). Zoof
