h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT
Having been de-mobbed in group 27 after WW2 I got married and lived a normal life as a civilian but for the next five years I still belonged to the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and should an emergency arrive I could be called up again.
Since I could speak some German and Arabic the job of a Palestine policeman was suddenly more attractive than working as a navvy or a truck driver.
One day I saw an add in the local paper, “The ideal job for a young man who is looking for excitement and a well paid job”
Arriving at the address in London I sauntered into the lobby and read a card that stated. “All Palestine Police applicants take a number from the hook on the wall and take a seat and wait until that number is called”
I sat there for about twenty minutes on my own and pondered if I was in the right building.
Why would I have to take a number if I was the only one there?
I was day dreaming again and the buxom young Arab wench was just about to drop a juicy large seedless green grape into me gob as I laid there in the hammock being fanned by a huge sun tanned native.
The dream suddenly evaporated as the door opened and a voice that sounded like Will Fyfe said, “Wull ye come en and tak a seat?”
I entered and sat down opposite a young man behind the polished desk who looked like one of our young Argyll Officers complete with down on his cheeks.
“ Why do you want to join the Palestine police particularly?” he asked putting his fingertips together and pressing them till the knuckles on his hands showed white.
“Because I had served there before the war and it was a job I was comfortable with and I thought I might advance my Arabic, and I know the area well” I replied.
“That’s all very well but we could not possibly take you from the Argylls” he countered, “And they have first call on you for the next five years” said the young man closing the folder and throwing it on the desk
That was the end of the Palestine Question.
Disappointed and feeling foolish for having wasted the Interviewer’s time and my own and for not having remembering I was on the Army Reserve I returned home and had to be satisfied with a job down at “The Farmer’s Company” a local chemical works until I could find an occupation that would suit me for the rest of my life.
The chemical works was situated on the banks of the river Humber that formed a natural barrier between parts of South Yorkshire and North Lincolnshire.
The works sported a large concrete jetty that jutted out from the bank and allowed barges carrying a hundred tons or more of phosphates, potash and other chemicals to tie up at the jetty where a huge crane would lower a grab into the holds and hoist forth the contents therein.
About three grabs would fill a dumper truck.
Since two dumper trucks were used the barges would be emptied quickly much to the joy of the Skippers of the barges.
The company or person owning the barge was paid for transporting the goods so it was good management to get discharged as soon as possible and catch the next tide.
One day the two chaps who drove the dumpers decided they wanted more money.
The management of the Chemical works decided they got paid enough for what they were doing.
The two disgruntled drivers decided they would go on strike.
The management decided to get two more drivers and told the two on strike they could stay on strike and paid them off.
The Foreman of the chemical works asked me one day, “Is it true you drive the Barton Ambulance Tom?”
I replied in the affirmative.
The Foreman then said, “How do you feel about driving a dumper?”
I replied, “A steering wheel is much the same on any vehicle”
The first day another new driver and I took over the two dumpers and it was like a circus to begin with.
The dumper seat is made of cast iron, and to make it more comfortable one folds up an empty sack and covers the cold iron of the seat.
Also the seat is situated behind the huge steel tip up dust pan shaped tray and when loaded with potash
the driver has to lean and crane his neck sideways to see past the load.
Sometimes when the wind or breeze is blowing down the jetty and the dumper is traveling at speed the grains of potash become airborne so the driver has to wear goggles to protect his eyes.
The engine powering these huge dumpers had four cylinders of huge capacity and sounded more like a Lancaster Bomber than a tractor.
A notice at the entrance to the jetty proclaimed this was private property and bewares of speeding dump trucks.
Anyone strolling down the jetty did so at their own risk when these dumpers were charging back and forth at full speed.
One day a bloke who was strolling on the bank decided to extend his stroll to the jetty.
He had read the notice but completely ignored it and was half way down the jetty when a dumper suddenly roared down on him.
Since the dumper was almost as wide as the jetty and the metal tubular rails held up by concrete posts were immovable the bloke’s eyes blinked and his brain took a snap shot of the speeding dumper bearing down on him and did a lightning calculation that informed him he could not possibly beat the dumper to the end of the jetty but there was an alternative, and he took it.
He screamed, “Shit!” and leapt the rail and straight down into the mud fifteen feet below.
The timekeeper in the office was suddenly confronted by what at first glance looked like an Egyptian mummy minus bandages.
“Weer the ‘ell ev yu bin? quipped the timekeeper, now in possession of his wits.
“Them mad buggers as drives they chuffin’ dumpers aught tu be locked up” snarled the disheveled mud covered bloke.
“Ah ony went tu ‘ev a luk of’n end o’ jetty an’ one bugger tried tu run me down”
“Well” said the timekeeper, “ Y’naw there is a notice that sez private property an’ keep off”
“ Ah would’nt push it owd mate, cos ap’n thee cud git summonzed”
The next near calamity was in the store shed.
The dumper loaded by the big crane, would then back up until the driver’s back was at the end of the ‘T’ piece at the end of the jetty.
Then the dumper would move forward and turn to enter the main run of the long jetty just like a bomber getting ready for take off, and once the dumper was lined up the engine would be fed full throttle.
Roaring like a fully loaded Lancaster bomber it would gather speed and tear down the jetty toward the storage shed where it would execute a right turn that almost ripped the tires off the huge wheels, and once inside the shed it charged the heap already in the shed.
Two reasons for this need for speed was the fact that the ship had to be emptied as quickly as possible to get it off on the next tide.
The other reason was the driver had to pull the tipping lever as the dumper hit the heap so that the load would be thrown up on to the material already on the ground.
This saved the bloke who was trimming the heap a lot of hard work.
The only trouble was that one day as a trial they installed a belt conveyor to get the heap higher and due to the noise of the conveyer belt the bloke didn’t hear the dumper coming.
He was busy trimming the bottom of the heap when with a roar a fully loaded dumper charged through the doorway.
The only warning the bloke got was suddenly the light from the doorway was shut out by the charging dumper and the bloke looked round in time to leap for his life up the heap just as the driver pulled the trip lever.
Fifteen minutes later an emergency team dug him out and made him a cup of tea laced with brandy.
He had been buried under a load of potash, but if he had not jumped the dumper would have crushed him.
They removed the conveyer belt and agreed it was not a good idea.
The management also had railings built to stop the public from wandering onto the property.
I must admit, that at the time that that job was almost as exciting as driving a Bren gun Carrier in the Libyan Desert.

Tom Barker ex 1st Bn A&SH.

Is this really a true story? It certainly sounds like it. There is plenty of authentic detail and that feeling of being caught up in random events that carefully plotted stories don't have.

Absolutly true and if you wish there are more hilarious memories I have stored in 85 years that I can relate to you.
Have fun, keep well, and be happy. Catch you later. T :0)

CHERRY RIPE
True story from somewhere’s about the 1930’s

When I was a lad of about nine I remember my Mum coming home in a Salvation Army bonnet.
We lived at No 11 Market Place, Barton-on-Humber in Lincolnshire. U.K.
My Uncle Jack had fixed a new electric bell to the door to replace the old brass one did not work when it was held by one robber’s hand thus giving his accomplice ample time to empty the till and take whatever they fancied while my Mum was out hanging the washing in the back yard.
Dad was unemployed and drew his dole money from the labour exchange.
Asleep on the couch in the kitchen he was oblivious to all that was happening around him.
But when Mum opened the door to the shop from the kitchen and screamed, “Lawks a mussy, we been robbed” Dad opened one eye and mumbled, “Wassamarrer?”
Uncle Jack worked on a farm just outside Barton.
When he came home he assessed the situation and commented, “ There’s nae chance o’ catchin’ they theivin’ beggers noo so we hev ti mak’ the best o’ it”
Then he painted the shop front and what had been a small sweet shop now became, “The Corner Café”
With a new electric bell the shop began to make money.
“Harraway man Charlie, waddye think?” warbled Uncle Jack with his Geordie lilt to my Father.
My Dad yawned, spat into the fire grate, turned over on the black horse hair couch with just enough effort to make a spring creak or break wind and went back to sleep.
From previous experiences I did not hang around to determine the cause of the noise but I knew from previous occasions I would be sorry I had tarried long enough to taste it.
Mum was counting the takings on the kitchen table and jotting little notes while holding a hanky to her nose.
She gave the horizontal Hippo on the couch a look of disgust and carried on totting up in the notebook.
Suddenly she had a bright idea, “We could do out those two empty rooms and we could do bed and breakfast for travelers.”
Then gasped and replaced the hanky to her mouth.
She broached the subject the next morning at the breakfast table and Uncle Jack thought it was a good idea.

Dad said, so long as they kept out of his way he couldn’t care less.
As long as Dad got his, “Smokin’ terbaccy” he was happy.
.
Then Mum came home one day and opened a hat box.
If one has ever observed the Coronation of the King as the priest holds the crown aloft for all to see and gasps of awe ascend to the heavens, this situation was a bit like that.
My sisters and I, along with Uncle Jack and my Dad were all silent and wide eyed as my mum withdrew the Salvation Army bonnet.
It looked like a black bonnet from one of those Western movies where the woman is driving the covered wagon among the rampaging Indians.
This bonnet had a crimson ribbon that was splashed right across the front of the bonnet and in huge letters of gold there were three words.” BLOOD AND FIRE”
“Bloody ‘ell!” exploded Dad, “Wot did that cost?”
With the bonnet in place my Mum walked to and fro past the full length mirror in her bedroom warbling something about Sampson and Delilah.
That bonnet had everyone in our house bewitched.

Uncle Jack bought a trombone and joined the Salvo’s band
A little later my Dad bought an oompah gizmo that coiled round and round.
He also joined The Salvo’s but because his notes were two bars behind everyone else he got chucked out
and began beating the bar in the pub instead, “Weers me pint?”
He could not read the music and get his fingers to press the right buttons on the oompa
gizmo at the same time.
But he was good at filling football pools coupons ‘cos he had a week’s grace before the game was played.

Then Mum bought a tambourine.

Uncle Jack would be in the back yard giving it “Waaaaaaaaayuuup ”as he pulled and pushed the sliding bit back and forth while blowing through pinched lips into the mouth piece.
Some notes sounded remarkably like a Suffolk punch plow horse as it strained in the harness to pull the plow through heavy clay soil, and us kids were standing there giggling at the red faced effort being used to get something resembling a tune.
Uncle Jack said he thought his top lip was a bit weak so he explained to me Dad that if he grew a moustache
it would strengthen his top lip enough to help him play better.
Then Uncle Jack with his big moustache an’ got arrested cos the Fuzz thowt ‘e were Wyat Earp on the run.
My Dad smiled and looked like he was in pain but replied, “Why don’t yer paint yer gob wi’ a mixture of two of sand an’ one o’ cement an’ if that don’t work try some anisette but don’t put the bottle on a chair cos if some bugger sits on it they will not be able ti’ use the toilet for the next fotneet.
Dad was in the kitchen giving it, “ Oompah oompah.
Mum was upstairs in the top room singing, “ When the Saints” rattle rattle, ching ching, “Come marching in,” ching, rattle ching.
Then next doors mob were banging on the wall in time to the music so we now had drums.
The Cops called and wanted to see an entertainer’s license.
Then I bought a Harmonica with a slide and began practicing “The Colonel Bogey march.”
Dad was going to show me how to play it, but all I heard was a four letter word when his lip got trapped by the narrow crack in the front cover and the brass reed carrier.
Me Mam said I had to joint the Salvos “Cos she didn’t fancy living with sinners”.
So I went one Sunday evening just to make her happy.
The meeting had just started.
There was snow on the ground outside.
Mrs Thinner who sang like those people do in the German opera’s was there and every time they asked for a volunteer for a song she was always the first on her feet, to mutterings from the rest of the audience of, “Oh Gawd, not again, if she ivver gits a chuffin’ nose bleed ah’ volunteer ti tie a tourniquet rahn’ ‘er neck.
The Salvation Army Captain who bore such a remarkable resemblance to a South American vulture that some in the audience referred to him as El Condor and in the pulpit and I remember him saying “Nah aw yo sinners come and kneel at the repentance bench.”
Mum kept nudging me to go.
So like a good boy I went, it was a mistake, boy was it ever a mistake!
No sooner had I got there and knelt down when a lady in a hat like my Mum’s new Salvo’s hat came and put her arm round me.
“Ayeup, wot’s goin’ on” I asked, trying to edge away.
But she clung on like a hungry fruit bat and began whispering sweet nothings inter me shell like lug ‘ole, and I could smell violet cashews on her breath and every time she moved hers arms it was like having ones nose close to a dead rabbit.
I had heard the cashews hid the smell of garlic and vampires didn’t like garlic.
Then because I was not responding to her sweet warblings, she almost snarled, “Is tha’ chuffin’ deef or wot?”
I paid attention and it was not long before she had convinced me I was Old Nick Himself.
It was like being whipped with words.
The lady thought she had won when suddenly I burst into tears and sobbed all the way back to me seat.
But it was a ploy to get away from the clinging arms that would not let me move as the voice kept on telling me what a rotten little sod I was.
Boy was I glad to get back to my seat
I never offered to go there again but I did attend Sunday school and I got a book for good attendance.
The book was called “ Cherry Ripe”
Well I did think it was better than getting two shiners from me dad for disobedience.
Later when I saw any Salvo ladies in the street I would dive into the nearest shop and pretend to be looking round.
Trouble was as I began to grow up and used this ploy, the bloke behind the counter would stop what he was doing and reach under the counter and put a baseball bat on the counter within easy reach until I left the shop.
Skewey’s toyshop in George Street got really smart one Christmas when the shelves were loaded with toys.
The Manager had the entrance modified between the till and the door.
When someone came into the shop they walked over one part of the floor and a little window in the wall
registered their weight.
On passing the till going out the numbers would be the same as the person left if they had not used the till to pay for what they had picked up in the shop.
But if the numbers differed and the till had not been used the door would automatically be locked and the would be shoplifter would be trapped inside the shop.
Unfortunately the idea had to be scrapped because one time the door locked and the owner had to ring the fire brigade to come and take the door off to let a lot of extremely de-chuffed people out
The watch and clock merchant next door to Skewey’s Toy Shop decided to have his own electric power unit installed in the brick shed at the back of his shop.
A huge engine was installed onto the new concrete floor and a generator was ordered and all the local kids got news by installments from the proud son of the owner of the shop as to the progress of the job.
“ Us weern’t be bothered wi power cuts not no moor! He chortled to the crowd of us kids gathered around
asking when was the big day?
We got bored with, and got used to Winter setting in with power cuts when it rained a bit heavier than usual
or snow began to fall, or the local Blacksmith got p-----d as a nute last night, and someone fetched the Fuzz to drag him out of the local duck pond where he had staggered to have a leak, cos the last time he thought he was leaking in the doorway of an empty house the occupant of said empty house suddenly opened the door and doused him with a bucket full of ice cold watter and told him ti slash some weers else.
However the bloke next door to Skewey’s Toy Store, who had the radio wired from his Shop Premises to lots of other houses in Barton finally got his home built generator going and was even now dancing with delight and with his gob puckering up like a duck’s bum about to squirt mud at a wandering lost rat he was whootlin’ “Over the waves Waltz” in quick time.
Cos yu see sum folk in Barton couldn’t afford tu buy a radio but fer Seven and Six Pence per annum could get the B.B.C. every day wired from the shop next to Skeweys Toy Shop.
The radio rental idea was a good idea at the time, but when any power cuts happened due to storms or whatever, and the radio went kaput, (dead) irate people would line up at the shop and threaten to lay one on the unfortunate owner who finally decided to remedy the situation by building his own power house in his own back yard.
But in Skewey’s Toy Shop one afternoon the silence was suddenly shattered by what sounded like a fully loaded B 47 four engine Bomber was beginning it’s take off run on the roof tiles of the George Hotel at the top of George Street and was then taxiing over Wilner’s shoe shop, then over the Chemist’s shop and picked up speed over the Kid’s Sweet Shop.
By the time the noise had got half way down George Street was when old man Skewey noticed that the hundreds smart ranks of lead toy soldiers that had been lined up ready to do battle on the top shelves with some plastic Dinny saw us Rex of the store were now doing an inching kind of shuffle movement to the front edge of the shelf and falling head first onto the floor.
Trouble was some of the plastic animals landed first only to be stuck up the root canal by the next lead Sodger wi’ his bayonet fixed.
All the wooden shelving in the store seemed to have come alive and everything on them was dancing to the vibrations that seemed to be getting louder.
Then suddenly the noise stopped and the silence was so loud that one young lady assistant jumped about a foot into the air when old man Skewey spoke to her from behind.
“ Go outside Missy and see if you can see some one playing a gob organ?” he pleaded.
“ Chuffin’ ‘eck!” replied the Lass, “ Me Dad cin fart louder than any chuffin’ gob organ!”
“ Be that as it may be” warbled owd Skewey, “Ah wants tu naw who’s responsible fer aw this racket?”
“ An look at all me stock o’ toy sodjers on’t floower!” he wailed.
Well! ah meen! I knew that the bloke next door had been fiddlin’ wi fittin’ a new generator en at, but it weren’t up to me to clue owd man Skewey in.
Besides that I remembered the time I walked though Skewey’s shop to browse when it was done up for Xmas and I was searched before I left, and despite my angry protests the assistant pulled a toy glider kit from my pocket and called the Fuzz and I stood there and let him.
When the Policeman came and listened to the Assistant he finally turned to me and said, “ I will also have to search you!”
In my top pocket the Fuzz found the receipt for Two Shilling and Sixpence for the glider kit.
The Fuzz then asked, “Why did you not tell me you had paid for this kit?”
“ You never asked!” I replied.
“Don’t get smart with me boyo!” replied the Fuzz.
“No sir” But then It wasn’t I that called you” I replied.
Then old man Skewey turned up.
“Aha yu caught him then?”
Then the Fuzz turned to old man Skewey and asked him, “ Did you sign this docket for the two and sixpenny glider kit?” and shoved the docket under the nose of Skewey.
“That’s my signature and I remember writing it for a glider kit this afternoon” warbled Skewey.
“ I don’t believe this” grated the Fuzz bloke and let go of me and was walking out of the store when I shouted after him, “ Cheers Mate, watch out for the dog crap an’ have a merry Xmas”
And the Cop turned a very red burning face around just in time to see my one finger salute, but when he got to where I had been I was about three hundred yards up the road and still running.
Ah indeed those were the days. :0) T

Wot! no one for a game of tennis even? :0)