Date: Sat, 10 Aug 2002 22:55:10 +1000 From: David Spencer <davidspencer1@hotmail.com> Subject: HMS Nottingham Chuck If you call me that, I'll do it all over you Ok ... Chas If you persist with that one, I'll do it to you all around the bar until I catch you and then spank you until everyone thinks they're in a glow-worm cave I guess its just Charles then That's what I told you in the first place How about ... My Prince! You'll be like Dianna, if you call me that Dianna? Yes ... Dead Ok. What about the other parameters Come again I wish ... What about the other boundaries. What can I ask you and what can't I ask? Just about whatever you like About this time my leading hand was making its way up into his fo'c'sle and trying to nestle around his anchor warp. That didn't seem prohibited. It was pretty obvious his essential data included an eight inch bow-sprit. Well that certainly was not classified info So how come you blokes were being so intimate with Lord Howe? Dead silence. I might as well been speaking double dutch, or strine, or something else as way out of this world. No response. That obviously WAS classified Not that I was the only one interested. The whole bar had gone silent Yeah, I know, I get a little loud when I'm in G and I've had a few to drink. I mean it wasn't like last weekend when Tod's cousin from Kurri Kurri was feeding me schooner after schooner of Strongbow cider. I had a reason to be loud then. Anyway, I like being loud when I'm at G. And everyone around me seems to like it too. They all seem to hover around and join in the conversation and fun. It's all friendly. I don't allow any bullshit or nastiness around me then. Except for the partner of course. He seems to hate it when I relax and have some fun with me mates at G. He can be like a real wet rag at times. Lots of times actually. But especially then. He told me he was going if I didn't start behaving myself. So I kindly said goodbye to him. Peter told me he was so proud I stood up to my partner like that. I wasn't quite sure what he was talking about But that was last Saturday. This was this Saturday. And here was Charles. In all his studly glory I ventured again. How come you blokes were trying to mount Wolf Rocks like that Still no sound. This time I got it. I was in dangerous waters here. A bit like them when they went aground. How long ago was it? Three weeks ... four weeks? And is was only yesterday that they managed to get towed into Newcastle. Incredible And here were all these super stud sailors hanging around, just tonguing for a real beer. And some of the locals too I could see. And I was stuffing it up by treading on sore toes I mean, it wasn't their fault that their destroyer ran aground off Lord Howe Island like that. I mean they were all minding there own business ogling the really nice scenery there when all of a sudden all those nasty rocks sprang up from the floor of the ocean and bit into the bow of their warship. It wasn't really their fault that the first four forward compartments of their floating palace got flooded. Just another hazard of life at sea. You know, storms, flotsam, jetsam, bad food, officers and a navigator who must have thought he was still in the English channel. Well he certainly wasn't looking at the Lord Howe Island chart. Unless it was the one Lieutenant Ball made in 1792 or whenever it was But what got me was how one of Her Majesty's Type 42 Air Defence Destroyers with 125 metres of waterline; crew of 253; speed of 29 knots; armament of 4.5 inch gun, Sea Dart surface to air missiles, 2 x 20mm guns, torpedo tubes, Vulcan Phalanx close-in weapons system, Lynx mark 8 helicopter with depth charges anti-ship missiles anti- submarine torpedoes and machine guns; managed to run into a well known AND CHARTED bunch or rocks shown on contemporary Australian and old British Admiralty maps just a kilometre or so off the main beach of Lord Howe Island I mean I've got forward looking sonar on my Adams 10.6 yacht. It's nothing flash. But if I go nosing around some seamount sticking out of the ocean I really would expect some submerged rocks to be around. I really would be watching my sonar. I really would be looking at my maps. I really would be using my satellite fed Global Positioning System. And I really would be looking in front of me for the usual tell-tale froth of breakers on submerged rocks I guess Her Majesty's officers thought minor nuisances like navigational hazards just should not presume to inconvenience one of Her Majesty's warships while it is flying the flag around one of the old colonial possessions. I say ... What, hey! Really. The hide of it. Fancy daring to strike one of the United Kingdom's finest vessels. And below the waterline too. How dastardly. How underhanded. Definitely not Marquis of Queensbury style. How vulgar. And here was me, in the front bar of G, asking one of these gallant sailors just what happened. No wonder everyone was suddenly quiet. I had crossed the line. Fortunately Peter had the sense to go for the grope on Charles, and my ever-loving exercised his unvarying habit of grabbing me by the hand and jerking me around to face him. And the music. O boy. I was in for it again. That's what happens when you go to the trouble of working your ring off and working overtime and getting tired to keep your ever-loving in the style to which he desires to become accustomed, and then trying to find somewhere to relax and unwind at least one time a week. I mean, its no good trying to relax in bed on weeknights. You might be all worked up and desperately in need of a little R&R. But no. The ever-loving is disappointed with you over something and has turned off the tap. Or closed the lid, as is his more usual choice. So you have to wait til Saturday night. And you're all wound up and need to unwind. And ever-loving is there with you, watching you like a hawk. And you need to relax. But can't. And you get all hot and bothered. And while you're hot and bothered and trying to relax you haven't got time to watch what you're saying. Then you really get in the poo. The cat is waiting for the mouse to slip. And pounce he does. O boy. It makes you wonder why you put up with it all. And Charles. I mean, I didn't really want to put him on the spot. I really was interested. I couldn't for the life of me understand how a warship, supposedly with all the mod cons of navigation could come to grief just running into a pile of rocks. In smooth waters. In calm weather. With no other shipping around. It was once such a proud navy. My how the mighty have fallen. Those revolutionaries on the other side of the Atlantic have taken over now. They have the might and so they have the right. And that once so proud little island off the European mainland is now relegated to doing sub-tropical sail-pasts around insignificant outposts on the other side of the world where no-one can see what they're up to How sad. If the Argies had knocked them off, at least they would have had the satisfaction of knowing they had contributed to keeping all those sheep safe out of foreign hands. But they go and run into an island that doesn't even have any sheep on it. Of all the places in the South Pacific, how did they manage to find a place to run into without any sheep on it. Maybe they've got New Zealander tendencies and were feeling particularly heartbroken that there were no sheep around, and just got distracted Anyway, all of us at G were prepared to distract them from their distractions. Except I had just opened my mouth and reminded them about the one thing they were trying to forget. Maybe it was my duty to have faith in them without question. But I wondered whether faith as a duty is sufficient or whether a good lookout might not have been a better duty for them at the time. Poor HMS Nottingham. Stuck down under in Newcastle with all those bronzed Aussies. But no worry mate. I know we'll look after all those seamen. All 253 of them. Except, not me. I've got ever-loving to look after. Or be looked-after by. Whatever. (More? Email davidspencer1@hotmail.com)