oilfieldbasura

Wot’s all this then? Wot’s all this?” said Frank. I kept a perfectly straight face and said: “It’s the Sabbath”. It was 5 o’clock in the morning and we were both in the galley for breakfast. What was animating my supervisor was that I was dressed in a dark wool suit, a white shirt and a tartan tie. Frank and the rest of our crew were more casually dressed. My choice of attire had been inspired by a talented story-teller from Arbroath. He had been the life and soul of the coffee-shop on another rig. One tale was of a ship crewed by hard-drinking blasphemers from the western isles. For six days and nights they would drink and swear with skill and enthusiasm. Then, on the sabbath, they would dress up in good quality suits and, Bible in hand, would reveal a hitherto unseen side of their character. After breakfast we assembled in a Mechanic’s Workshop prior to going out on deck. It was here that I began my ministry, Bible in hand. The guys were still sleepy and no-one doubted my since

Johnny ‘The Skull’ was not a handsome man. He pushed his way through a crowded bar at Aberdeen Airport and caught the barman’s eye. “Bartender, gimmee a beer,” he said in a southern-states drawl. Then, without looking, he pointed to his left and said: “And one for the Niggah.” The barman looked confused and said: “Sir there’s nobody there.” The noise in the crowded bar dropped a little. Johnny looked to his left and then behind him. At the back of the room stood a large dark-skinned man. Johnny called him over: “Hey Niggah come on over here”. Turning back to the barman he added: “And bring them bags.” The large man with two large bags moved through a hushed room to take his appointed place at the bar. Johnny said: “Siddown and drink yo beer”, without looking at his compatriot. The dark man said nothing as his middle-class English accent would have spoiled the whole charade. Needless to say The Skull was as Scottish as Alex Harvey or Niall MacKenzie. The Skull and his dark-skinned

“All you need is sugar and yeast and something to flavour it with”, asserted the Master-Story-Teller. To illustrate his point he went on to explain: “I once made a drop from grapefruit-juice. It was a bit dry at first but you soon got the taste for it.” We were drinking home-brew made with tins of brewer’s-malt that a Baker had ordered for making brown-rolls. The catch was that it was made with baker’s-yeast which gave it a bit of a rough bouquet. We were North-Sea-Tigers so we persevered and our palates adjusted fairly rapidly. Mick was an alcoholic who had begun his drinking in London’s eastern suburbs. His London-stories were set in the sixties, an era that is famous for playing tricks on the memory. One night of light-social-drinking brought our Hero and his friends to a certain night-club. A young Scottish-Singer was the centre-of-attention. Mick felt it to be his duty to ask her up for a dance. On the dancefloor the ungrateful-young-hussy asked him: “How did you-lot get in

Back in the days when the oilfield was young a Polish-Canadian whose name might have been Paul was looking out the window at the trailer-park where he lived. His happy day-dreams ended with the high-speed arrival of his neighbour’s car. His neighbour got out of the car and ran to his trailer and disappeared inside. Then the RCMP arrived with the disco-lights on. Two big cops jumped from their car and ran to the trailer and disappeared inside. Paul was wondering what was going on across the way. As he opened his door the cops and the neighbour came out again, fightin and hollerin just like in the movies. Now Paul had old-fashioned Polish ideas about being a good neighbour; or maybe he just didn’t like the Arse. The neighbour had been standing up for his democratic-rights but the bad-guys were winning; until Paul arrived. After the action-scene the cops drove off with second-prize. Paul got to speak to his neighbour for the first time and the neighbour was real pleased to meet him.