The Lower Groping Shindig

2017 Lower Groping village Shindig. A festival of scribbling, music and poetry.
The Venue. Myfannway’s Barn. Back of the Pig & Bladder, Lower Groping.
Date to be announced.
Dress worn out Tweedyish
Opening time about 10.30 a.m.

LOWER GROPING, described in the Doomsday book in 1086 as a rural community of inebriates has largely maintained its reputation without recourse to sentiment or modern plumbing. Bounded on four sides by Upper Groping and Sideways Groping, the village has steadfastly maintained its own identity as a haven for literary dexterity, as the carved communications on walls and ceilings ably testify.

THE PIG & BLADDER was also mentioned as a ‘house of good repute’ with ill-reputed pursuances.

THE BARN although lying derelict since the ‘hundred year’s war’, was renovated substantially in 1943 by sex starved G.I’s and the ever willing Mavis Crabthrobber’s grannies. Both of ‘em.

Initially, the barnyard will welcome guests while a musical rendition of hip-hop Welsh military fugues played by the Prince of Wales’s Regiment, Foot and Mouth Division. Accompanied by Quivering Meg on the tuba and our old friends Henry the Bold and Dick the Outrageous on bongos. Dancing anything quicker than a slow waltz is not recommended as the cobbles are not exactly even. However ‘wellington boots’ will be provided (for a small charge) if the weather is inclement.

As they enter the barn guests shall be presented with a Welsh leek and pin at no extra cost. Points of interest, a colony of bats hanging from the eves and medieval sheep droppings etc., will be pointed out by usherettes Enid Pratnimble and Ethel Whimsy. Straw bales will be provided for your comfort as will Enid Pratnimble and Ethel Whimsy.

Five busty barmaids in traditional busty costumes will circulate throughout the opening, and indeed throughout the whole shebang, with foaming jugs of ‘old and filthy’ the traditional ale that became notable after King Canute imbibed four jugs full with great gusto before attempting to turn back the Atlantic ocean. For those of an abstemious nature in the alcohol department, another five equally encumbered village maids will circulate with Blodwyn’s euphoric effects sausages on sticks. Later they will circulate with munchies.

The Performers (so far)
PRATLOO At the start of their prestigious European tour this ensemble of chaps from America will perform their intoxicating syncopated rhythms.
SHARI JO LEKANE-YENTUMI. Our own Poet Laureate from America will give a rendition of her latest, and possibly her oldest rhymes. (Shari has hinted at the possibility of doing a ‘dance of the seven corsets’ whilst performing)
THE DUKE OF EDINBURGH. Now with time on his hands after princely duties, Frightening Phil, as he is known in avant-garde circles, has been an avid follower of hip-hop-jazz. He will regale us all with risqué sea shanties and even more risqué thoughts on virtually everything else.
THE ROLLING SCONES. Four throbbing lummoxes from the cake shop with noisome intent.

An update on various matters.
Good news on the line up. Harmony Nudging the author with ten best sellers still on the bookshelves is going to entertain us with tales of romance during a visit by Queen Victoria to a local coalmine hereabouts.
My design for a revolving stage powered, by a complex system of gears and suchlike, by the River Og as it flows aristocratically down the mountain sides in a series of gentle waterfalls, has been moderately successful. I had geared it for two revolutions per minute. However, owing to a near monsoon during the night the river swelled and cascaded down the valley in savage rage and tumultuous torment. This increased the revolutions of the stage to seventy five-eight per min. Unfortunately, Blodwyn Freeaneasy was rehearsing the Lower Groping Pink Floyd tribute band on stage in the early hours with the Bish of Bath sucking the trombone. The stage rotated faster, they apparently held on for dear life until jettisoned off in all directions like a rocket-salvo. Never mind, I shall install a clutch mechanism in the next few days.
Other artists booked so far include:
The Electric Druids, a bunch of chaps painted green with oak twigs adorning their instruments.
Two Gentlemen from Veronica, a play about two blokes and their mother, I suppose.
The massed bands of the Noise Abatement Society performing their top hit ‘Silent Night.’
The Memsahib’s treatise on the differing hypnotic effects of tree sap depending on type of tree.
Whispering Ermintrude with her songs for senile lovers.

 

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No 5 Joining and Leaving

There are two particular agonies that occur in a Seafarers life and neither has anything to do with loss of life or shifting cargo. The first one is awful because it rips you away from the bosom of your family, or in a few cases your favourite barmaid. That phone call, or rather the torture of waiting for that phone call from the Shipping Company, which ends your leave and gives you joining instructions. You know it’s going to come, you know your days are numbered, but all the same the wait is agonising. Once it comes and you summon up the courage to pick up the receiver, the veil lifts a little, you start to tune in, you’re mind is already halfway there and you sometimes even begin to look forward to it.
The second agony is exquisite. You wake up in the morning, on board ship and know that today is the day you go home on leave. Or are supposed to, but as we know, getting home can sometimes be exhilarating or conversely horrendous, depending on your state of intoxication, as we shall see later.
Of course, the reverse is sometimes true. I have known men count down the days and hours to get away from the nagging wife, screaming kids, mortgages, gas bills etc and paradoxically go all maudlin when the time comes to step down the gangway for the last time, to go on leave, back to the nagging wife, screaming kids, mortgages, gas bills etc.
The journeys to and from the vessel are fraught with pitfalls. In the former case, it is highly likely that you will join up with a shipmate en route. This can lead to disastrous hazards, not unconnected with alcohol. A Captain I know spent four days travelling by train from his home in Cornwall to join a ship in London with a shipmate. Somehow they went via Liverpool, Leeds, Glasgow, back to Liverpool then Edinburgh and eventually caught up with the ship in Rotterdam.
Swivel, a second Engineer acquaintance, so called because he was very cross-eyed, once joined the wrong ship in Hamburg after a heavy night in the Red Light district. He didn’t realise it was the wrong ship for three weeks, and nobody told him because they couldn’t catch his eye.
This brings us to paying off. There you are, bags packed, signed off articles, waiting at the head of the gangway for your relief to show himself. You wait and wait, the ships about to sail and still no relief. The pilot is due on board, the engines are being tested, and the message comes through that the Company wishes you to stay on because your relief is being held in custody by the airport police, for making lewd advances to an Air-hostess.
It has been known, quite often, for the chap paying off, to enlighten his superior Officer with a few home truths about his table manners, personal hygiene, working methods or wife’s morals. This enlightenment is usually undertaken on the last night on board, during a last drink with the lads. I knew a Fourth Engineer once, so desperate to get off, after staggering into the Chief Engineer’s cabin at four in the morning and regaling his superior with a diatribe of such monumental invective, that he grabbed a passing docker and bribed him ten quid to impersonate his relief for half an hour while he made his escape.
Another indication of imminent leave is called the ‘Channels’ This peculiar phenomenon manifests itself in the inability to sleep when approaching your home port, which in British terms meant the English Channel. The sight of shipmates wandering around the vessel in a dream like state when they should be asleep, very often muttering can seem very bizarre to the uninitiated.
Wives are sometimes summoned to collect their respective spouses if the pay off port is the home country. This can lead to all sorts of complications. It may have sounded like a good idea when first proposed. Have a look at the ship, meet the other chaps, have an enjoyable drive back, stop off for a nice meal, bit of shopping, etc etc, but in reality to come on board and find your husband comatose after the previous night’s paying off party is not an auspicious start. It usually goes downhill from there. The wife finds herself also lumbered with a couple of other shipmates as well as their entire luggage who are also going on leave. The fact that their respective homes mean a detour of a couple of hundred miles doesn’t enter into it. It was a smashing thought cooked up the night before in a fit of euphoria. ‘Of course, the wife won’t mind, only too pleased.’ And it has the added bonus of being able to stop off at a number of watering holes en route and not have to worry about breathalysers.
A Chief Mate of my acquaintance, who lived in Ipswich, told me that he once had a lift home in a Third Engineers car driven by his wife, together with an effeminate Chief Steward from Birmingham, when the whole plan backfired. The Third’s wife turned out to be an absolute lush; she could down six pints before they’d knocked the froth off their first. The journey, a pub-crawl from Avonmouth, via Birmingham, to Ipswich, took two days and in the end, they got so mixed up, the Chief Steward was dropped off at the Mate’s front gate in Ipswich and the Mate ended up in the arms of the Chief Steward’s boyfriend in Birmingham.
Paying off in some foreign port with the added delight of having to spend the night in a hotel, because there isn’t a flight home until tomorrow, is full of pitfalls. The euphoria of leaving the vessel is enough, then add to it a large wad of money, blokes you know who are also in the same frame of mind and a recipe for some form of disaster is writ large in the annals of legendary sea lore.
We paid off in Singapore once and were booked into a hotel until flights home could be arranged, and as is the way of things the paying off party started on the ship and then progressed into the hotel bar, before even finding our rooms. Our Captain was the epitome of Captaincy in all respects and spent the whole time on the ship in a sober, responsible state of mind with no hint of a wayward demeanour. However, he entertained his relief, an old friend and colleague with conspicuous intemperance and arrived at the hotel in a state of some distress. The Chief Officer and Second Mate were half carrying the poor man and had the decency to take him as far as the lift in this multi-story hotel and deposit his luggage around him before the need for a quick drink overcame their sense of duty. They were knocking back their first Singapore Slings and had completely forgotten their erstwhile Captain as he soared upwards towards an unknown fate.
We all left the bar after an hour or two, with the intention of grabbing a couple of hour’s kip before getting ready for the evening’s delights. The lift was called and as the doors opened we were met by the sight of our dear Captain in a state of undress, with suitcase contents spread across the floor and in a high state of indignation.
‘Thank god you’ve come,’ he said, after focusing, ‘They’ve given me a bloody rabbit hutch of a room with no bloody bed, no bloody windows and what’s more, complete bloody strangers keep opening the bloody door and staring at me.’
And so we leave the ship, full of good intentions. The planned kitchen extension, drawn out meticulously on the chart table. The rockery with the water feature, a pump filched from the engine room store ready to fit, in the suitcase. The wallpapering, the new bathroom suite. Winning the lottery. The desperate search for a shore job…the list is endless.
The road to hell is paved with these intentions; none of them ever come to fruition. The weeks shoot by, the dreaded time approaches. Then Hell suddenly phones ‘Had a good leave,’ it says, ‘Please join the MV….’