Archive for the Dartmouth Category

Mr Brownstone

Posted in Dartmouth, Humour, life, Uncategorized with tags , , , on July 22, 2008 by norvenmunky

Our ‘regular’ correspondant Berg has been in touch, having recently been reminded of Mr McGregors ‘Thames Whaling’ exploits, and clearly at the very least it touched a few memory cells, if not cloth. We can all remember occaisions where when ensconsed in assorted abolutions, theres been that worrying WTF! sound from the trap next door. Be it un-natural grunting or the sound of a kettle being emptied into a bucket from a height of fifteen feet or more, we’ve all been there. However without more ado I commend the reading of ‘The thoughts of Chairman Berg’

‘In his latest posting Norven Munky has recalled an iconic moment in cinematic history as Ewan McGregor sought employment as a plumber’s mate. It made “The Berg” recall several of life’s “Shitty moments” which he describes for your edification.

‘T’wuz many moons ago when your scribe resided at her majesty’s pleasure at BRNC Dartmouth. The bullshit phase of basic training entailed repeated cleaning of all fixtures and fittings for “Rounds”; whence a white glove escorted an officer in a hunt for dust. Discovery of dust was a heinous offence but I digress. With our cleaning duties never ending, it wasn’t long before some unfortunate chanced upon the largest turd ever recorded. It leapt to fame, standing some two inches proud of the water’s surface of the great white telephone in trap two of the starboard heads in Blake Division. Its dimensions reminded us nautical types of a berthing hawser; the sort of thing usually found fastening the USS Nimitz to the dockside. It was also generally agreed that it was the product either of midwifery or the slackest ring-piece in Christendom.

( Before you all snigger about Mr Churchill’s snotty comments about rum and lashes etc I should point out that in my current employ, the RAF is streets ahead in representing the pink-pound economy )

In addition to its girth and length, this laxative leviathan scored highly in the odour stakes as well. Indeed trap two had been well and truly “Chernobyled”. Its fame spread far and wide; well, around the college and it became, for a while, a tourist attraction. Its elimination was effected by some brave “Liquidators” who were allowed just twenty seconds each of frenzied plungering; clad in lead-lined, protective aprons. This led to the ship-driving syllabus about buoyancy being revised for future generations of would-be Nelsons.

Oft the butt of stand-up routines the never-ending-jobby has a buoyancy beyond the realms of normal physics. We’ve all been there. It wasn’t yours but the next bloke is waiting and will assume you possess no hygienic qualities if you leave the thing floating defiantly in the bowl. No matter how many flushes you attempt, sometimes waiting for ages for the cistern to re-fill, the bloody thing is still there. It amazes me that the RNLI have spent millions researching optimal buoyancy designs for its boats when all they had to do was build their Waveney’s et al out of shit.
( a serious aside; we doff our cap to the work of the RNLI and all therein !!!! )

Later on “The Berg” found himself lodging with a family in the south east. It was always a source of unease that the trumpet voluntary, oft sounded during visits to the head, would lead to finger pointing by the offspring of landlord. So it was that Berg would disguise a need for guilt free farting by claiming to be getting fit at a gym. Once changed into trazzy bottoms etc it was possible to move unseen into the discreetly sited heads. Safely sconced in trap one you could let rip in thunderous anonymity: bliss!

Moving on, “The Berg” remains mystified by the couture toilet designs often purveyed by the DIY emporia. Many designs seem guaranteed to produce skid marks all over the place no matter how carefully you honour Gibson et al or in my case the Taranto raid of Nov 1940. Indeed, dropping the kids off at the pool will almost certainly need post-flush remedial scrubbing lest we leave evidence of our defecation for all to see. Today’s bog standard is built for skids; unlike the colonies where a wide bowl allows you to curl down incredibly long movements before flushing sees the whole thing pirouette down the hole before bafflingly clean water re-plenns it.
That said, one’s admiration for the “Septics” septic arrangements are tempered by the disconcerting effect of gazing upon the aftermath of a particularly squirty one, post vindaloo, with your ring-piece looking like a Japanese naval ensign. Not pretty.

However, bully’s star prize must go to Russia. You may recall “The Berg’s” sojourn in Leningr…St Petersberg. Already nervous at the prospect of confronting the immigration authority of the old ( new ? ) enemy and general fear of the unknown your scribe had assumed “Sphincter-Con 1” with buttocks clenched as the A320 sped its way over the Baltic. On arrival at my digs my hosts showed me how to use the facilities. Trap One contained a foot-pedal-flushed, soviet era bowl which had a sort of platform that was about six inches under your arse as you sat down. No water catchment , nil , nada, nothing; just porcelain. So you did your business and were then able to inspect your excretal emanation in no small detail before condemning it to Baltic oblivion with footwork worthy of Nureyev himself.

“The Berg” has detained you long enough; and so, as the curious turtle of expectation head butts the underpants of reality, he bids you all farewell.

Next week we’ll be revisiting ‘The Lord Kitchener’ in New Southgate, a place where I indeed can recall a famous siting of a ‘Thames Whale’, on the way back from a Spurs match. The only thing missing was a Jolly Roger stuck in the top of it. Fortunately a coach of Japanese tourists arrived and it was unceremoniously harpooned, dragged out into the car park, and hacked to pieces on the spot.