The High Seas
THE FIRST WEEK at Sealink wis certainly eventful enough; a riot, a bit ay gear, n some barry sex. You cannae fucking well say fairer than that. Oan toap ay it aw, Marriott’s planned the first walk-through for the night. There’s nae chance ay us lasting the month here.
This is the weirdest place ah’ve ever worked; even Gillsland’s, wi Les’s Monday-morning shiteing competitions, cannae compete. Staff-wise, The Freedom of Choice is like the Marie Celeste. We’re experts at avoiding work; no just the seasonals, but the established staff tae. They’ve aw been issued new contracts ay employment, which means longer hours fir far less pay, so motivation is non-existent. Therefore any passengers with enquiries cannae find us. Oan occasions when we ur visible, we strut aroond the ship wi a phoney expression ay purpose oan oor faces, eywis in flight fae real graft. Cream Shirt’s lispy voice seems tae be chasing ghosts; a name prefixed by an anxious ‘Where’s …?’ Of course, nae cunt hus a fuckin scooby.
Being assigned tae the kitchen was meant tae be punishment, but it’s turned oot a fuckin boon; much better than stewarding duties. For one thing, thaire’s less risk ay confronting fitba mobs or drunk stag parties. Ah’ve nae inclination tae deal wi that kind ay shite. And, bein honest, ah cannae gie a fuck aboot Marriott’s smugglin gig either. If ah kin walk through the customs between shifts wi a couple ay grams ay percy and hud the job doon, then ah’m daein fine. But takin ten gs ay uncut broon through customs in ma strides, jist soas some fat cunt can buy sovies, drive a BMW n sit in a villa oan the Costa del Sol? Fuck that for a game ay sodjirs. There’s millions ay mugs in Thatcher’s army linin up fir that job. Sick Boy n me talked aboot it, n he’s in agreement. The only small matter is how tae brek the news tae Marriott. But ah dinnae gie a fuck; ah’ve goat other things oan ma mind.
Clang, bang, bang goes the ship, frothing through the North Sea, flocks ay squawkin gulls trailing behind feedin oan its excrement. Bang, bang, bang go me and Charlene, her grabbing a hud ay us and pulling us downstairs, riding us hard oan the bunk, her hair flying, or me sucking and licking her enchanting tufted fanny till she either squeaks wi delight or ah asphyxiate. Her small doll’s mooth around my cock, crazy eyes burning as it bangs oan the back ay her throat. Wir competitive orally; baith want tae bring the other oaf the quickest. Ah usually win, through making myself think ay Ralphy Gillsland’s vaginal coupon at the crucial moment, in order tae stave off the muck-spurt. My sex-drive still isnae what it should be, but at least smokin the broon disnae seem tae decimate it completely, no like bangin up the white. Youthful libido versus chronic heroin addiction is perhaps the ultimate battle between irresistible force and immovable object. But there’s only gaunny be one winner, so ah’ve goat tae keep the skag in check. In some weys there’s a pay-off though; instead ay gittin too excited and jist wantin tae git ma cock up thaire, it makes us mair relaxed n intae foreplay. Never realised ye could dae so much wi yir fingers, and as fir this fuckin tongue, ah’m like that boy oot ay Kiss or the fat gadgie fae Bad Manners whae looks like Keezbo …
On deck it’s perma-party time as drunk customers sway blindly intae the intense junky-n-uptight-faggot staff. Sick Boy’s antagonism towards me and Charlene for us getting it oan quickly dissipated when he realised that the nice girls really do love a sailor, n that having yir ain berth oan a boat fill ay drunk hen-night parties is a terrific asset. He’s the only male whae has his ain cabin, due tae some scam he worked oot. He’d said tae Cream Shirt, — I have unusual sleeping habits, Martin, which might prove embarrassing if someone was put in with me. I’d be very much obligated if you could spare me and any other party that awkwardness, by allocating me a private cabin if possible.
The short-arsed buftie had looked sympathetically at him and said, — Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.
But up till now skagwise, we’d only taken a bit ay percy through the customs. Ah wis shitein masel, even when ah saw the boy Frankie, who we’d drank wi up the Globe pub. He was sound. But there was once ah was ready tae go through n he wisnae there, it was jist some other gadge. Ah bottled it n walked back, away fae the ship, before ah saw Frankie comin towards us. — Just went for a shit, he smiled cheerfully, takin ower fae the other boy, and lettin us through oan the nod.
A bigger problem for me initially was Chef. Well, no him really, he turned oot tae be an okay gadge when ye got tae ken him. It was the work and specifically the fuckin heat. Naebody who husnae worked in an industrial kitchen can have any concept ay just how constant and draining it is. Ah goat oan wi the graft but, largely thanks tae bein wi Charlene. She described us as ‘friends who fuck’. She went oot her way tae let me ken that she hud a felly who’d got pit away n that ah wis basically jist a subsitute ride.
So ah huv tae keep ma infatuation in check, n it isnae easy. Tae me she’s ma English female equivalent; a Kentish dockyard princess fae Chatham. N thaire’s the boy in the chokey tae consider. Charlene doesnae want tae talk aboot him, which suits me, but she sais he’s in fir thieving rather thin violence, which comes as some relief. But whatever anybody’s in fir, thir no gaunny take too kindly tae some cunt cowpin thair lemon curd. Ye cannae say it’s overly romantic but, shaggin oan a narray bed, but at least she’s as restless as me, and eftir we’ve done the biz, we go up oan the deck, no many clathes oan, jist enough tae be decent if any cunt sees us, n watch the rough, sickly dawn rise ower the port. Frozen flurries ay rain lash low breeze-block harbour and shipping buildings and whistle roond the vessel’s structures above and behind us. Big puddles swell oan the uneven stanes ay the dock. Solitary figures struggle against the wind, tying heavy ropes oantae bollards or simply walking between buildings wi clipboards. Charlene’s big hair’s whipped by the gales, and we stand in T-shirts n tracky bottoms, playin a game whaire we git so unbearably cauld, one ay us’ll shout SURRENDER and we’ll beat an urgent retreat, crab-walkin doon the loads ay narray stairs tae the mingin bowels ay the ship n that festering nest, before snuggling up and riding again.
So on Amsterdam shore leave eftir our shifts, we’re sittin in the Grasshopper, me n Sick Boy, while Charlene is playin pool wi they two chain-smokin Scouse lassies wi throaty laughs, passengers whae came ower oan the boat. Nicksy comes in, lookin like a frightened schoolboy, wi an itchy, bug-eyed Marriott, whae clocks the girls and isnae happy. He nods tae the door.
Ah look at Sick Boy. We apologise tae the lassies n follay Nicksy and Marriott ootside, tae a busy ootdoor cafe across the square, n take some seats. A waitress comes n we order coffee.
— It’s on tonight, Marriott says. — We take through ten gs each.
Ah’m aboot tae say, no way, but Sick Boy gets in first. — Sorry, shipmate. Nice offer, but on this particular occasion I’m forced tae decline.
— What? You … you farking what? You’re having a laugh … I’ve got the farking shit here, he nods to the Sealink bag at his feet, then zips it open, pulling it apart to expose five packets.
— As I’ve said, I’d love to help you out, but on this particular occasion, I’m forced tae decline.
— You farking … what am I meant to do with this farking shit? His constipated owl eyes take a crotchety scour at a couple ay backpackers sitting doon at the next table. One has a Canada flag wi the maple leaf stickin fae it. In Scotland we’ve been exporting every straight cunt tae Canada fir generations. Result? They’re boring fuckers, and we’re a drug-addled underclass.