Can someone lend me a skirting board ladder?
I was listening to BBC’s Radio 4 the other day where there was a short piece about the strange nicknames the Bristol dockers had.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/bristol/5291028.stm
It took me back. I was a hayseed and had this inkling to go to sea so when a job appeared in the Bristol Evening Post for a deckhand, I applied. I got a job on a sand dredger for the Bristol Sand and Gravel Company. It seemed like a big ship at first but it shrunk very quickly from familiarity.
Going to sea proved to be a big disappointment. It was actually going to Severn Beach and the sand banks beyond to dreg up sand. My job consisted of scuttling round the deck with a brush and shovel keeping the scuppers clear. The dredge would shower me with water and I was always sodden. It was also my job to make the tea and the fry up. I still make a good fry up.
I left that job after a few months.
My dad worked as a customs officer. He knew all the dockers and their nicknames and was friendly with several of them. The bionic maggot was a very small man who got his name on the basis of, "F*ck me, you wriggled out of that quick enough." He was always at Eastville Stadium on dogs night and like my dad, always broke.
The docks were a place full of stories and I only know a few. Lots of things were stolen and it was seen as perks of the job.
My dad told of the case of honey samples in special porcelain jars with a bee moulding on the lid. As he passed the case during the day, the number of pots reduced until there was just one left. He said it seemed a shame to leave it all alone so he brought it home.
One of the dockers was a carpenter who spent his time making a wardrobe from mahogany he stole. The wardrobe was a work of art and he was teased by everyone, "how are you going to get that out of the gate." But get it out of the gate he did. One minute it was there with the french polish drying, the next it was gone.
The customs men took it in turns to be keyholders for the bonded warehouses that held tobacco, alcohol and other products subject to duty. One night a police car picked dad up because an alarm was ringing on one warehouse. They walked around the warehouse and found nothing. As they walked to the door, one of the policemen picked up a bottle of scotch, knocked the top off it and said, "look, there’s a broken one, it would be a shame to waste it." They sat down for an hour and got totally drunk.
Because I was a regular at the docks for a while I was able to get a job in one of the warehouses for a short time. The dockers and warehousemen were forever playing tricks on each other. Three card brag was a popular lunchtime diversion which I used to play.
There was one docker called ’drugged haddock.’ He’d been to see a film where he obviously missed the plot and the next day asked what a ’drugged haddock’ was. Apparently he’s misheard ’drug addict’.
One day the foreman got into a tizz and shouted, "How am I supposed to get up there without a ladder? Some bastard’s nicked me skirting board ladder." I was called over and with great urgency told, "Get over and find Bill Fricker and ask him to lend you a skirting board ladder, and be bloody quick, we haven’t got all day." I was halfway round the dock before the penny dropped. For the short time I worked there I had to live with the nickname ’skirting board ladder’.
There was a paper seller who used to stand outside the Co-op building on Broad Quay. He wore a scruffy duffle coat with string tied around the middle and an old cloth cap. I would often buy a paper from him and have a chat. One evening he asked if I wanted a lift home. We went to his car which turned out to be an enormous Armstrong Siddeley, something like a Rolls Royce. Apparently he managed several newsagents shops but would never forget the pitch he started out on.
I think it’s marvellous that people are now recording the little histories of little people who were really clever and inventive.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/bristol/5291028.stm
It took me back. I was a hayseed and had this inkling to go to sea so when a job appeared in the Bristol Evening Post for a deckhand, I applied. I got a job on a sand dredger for the Bristol Sand and Gravel Company. It seemed like a big ship at first but it shrunk very quickly from familiarity.
Going to sea proved to be a big disappointment. It was actually going to Severn Beach and the sand banks beyond to dreg up sand. My job consisted of scuttling round the deck with a brush and shovel keeping the scuppers clear. The dredge would shower me with water and I was always sodden. It was also my job to make the tea and the fry up. I still make a good fry up.
I left that job after a few months.
My dad worked as a customs officer. He knew all the dockers and their nicknames and was friendly with several of them. The bionic maggot was a very small man who got his name on the basis of, "F*ck me, you wriggled out of that quick enough." He was always at Eastville Stadium on dogs night and like my dad, always broke.
The docks were a place full of stories and I only know a few. Lots of things were stolen and it was seen as perks of the job.
My dad told of the case of honey samples in special porcelain jars with a bee moulding on the lid. As he passed the case during the day, the number of pots reduced until there was just one left. He said it seemed a shame to leave it all alone so he brought it home.
One of the dockers was a carpenter who spent his time making a wardrobe from mahogany he stole. The wardrobe was a work of art and he was teased by everyone, "how are you going to get that out of the gate." But get it out of the gate he did. One minute it was there with the french polish drying, the next it was gone.
The customs men took it in turns to be keyholders for the bonded warehouses that held tobacco, alcohol and other products subject to duty. One night a police car picked dad up because an alarm was ringing on one warehouse. They walked around the warehouse and found nothing. As they walked to the door, one of the policemen picked up a bottle of scotch, knocked the top off it and said, "look, there’s a broken one, it would be a shame to waste it." They sat down for an hour and got totally drunk.
Because I was a regular at the docks for a while I was able to get a job in one of the warehouses for a short time. The dockers and warehousemen were forever playing tricks on each other. Three card brag was a popular lunchtime diversion which I used to play.
There was one docker called ’drugged haddock.’ He’d been to see a film where he obviously missed the plot and the next day asked what a ’drugged haddock’ was. Apparently he’s misheard ’drug addict’.
One day the foreman got into a tizz and shouted, "How am I supposed to get up there without a ladder? Some bastard’s nicked me skirting board ladder." I was called over and with great urgency told, "Get over and find Bill Fricker and ask him to lend you a skirting board ladder, and be bloody quick, we haven’t got all day." I was halfway round the dock before the penny dropped. For the short time I worked there I had to live with the nickname ’skirting board ladder’.
There was a paper seller who used to stand outside the Co-op building on Broad Quay. He wore a scruffy duffle coat with string tied around the middle and an old cloth cap. I would often buy a paper from him and have a chat. One evening he asked if I wanted a lift home. We went to his car which turned out to be an enormous Armstrong Siddeley, something like a Rolls Royce. Apparently he managed several newsagents shops but would never forget the pitch he started out on.
I think it’s marvellous that people are now recording the little histories of little people who were really clever and inventive.
.