Here is yours truly casting a shadow, all dressed to kill fires. With my Darth Vader sound effects mask strapped across my chest aka Self contained breathing apparatus. The yellow helmet is of brand ” Cromwell” which I thought was very ironic, fire equipment with the same name as the Cromwell who burned Drogheda and Wexford, perhaps the descendants have a private laugh about it at company parties, or maybe they don’t know……it felt weird all the same.
Anyway dressing up like a fireman and being a fireman are two different things, and I like the prevention is better than cure theory.
We have had Cork City Fireman teaching us, so phrases like “get moving langer” and ” you look flahed out Boy” and “dowtcha boy” have been used with great gusto, also “alright kid”, “alright boy” or “alright buddy” used as a greeting has been popular
We have dragged fire hose and clambered in and out of a burning module with breathing equipment and black smoke billowing out so it is impossible to see, roasting hot like the hobs of hell and when you apply water to hot metal it turns to steam which burns you too. Hard to talk with breathing gear on, and the more you shout the more air you waste, it’s no joke. Then theres the smell of burning diesel and wet gloves and well worn wellington boots. All this and trying to stay calm, and trying to think straight, and this is only instruction with qualified firemen.
Anyway last day tomorrow, thank the gods. Fireman Tim will return to being sailor Tim, a far more relaxed type of guy!
Off to Ireland to complete my exams and attend a Fire Fighting course, as we can’t call the fire brigade if we ever have a fire…..we are the firemen, so it helps if you know how to use the gear.
Photos and full report from Cork later.
The ship happened to be passing Gothenburg just in time for my 4 week stint to finish, so I was able to get off in Sweden. What a relief to miss all the shite of airports, unfortunately the relief will be shortlived I have to head over to Ireland on Sunday for the final exam all going well. Mode of transport, airplane. Object to be passed through in order to reach mode of transport, airport.
I got a taxi to the train station when I paid off the ship, the senses were bombarded by input from everywhere people, cars, movement, noise and smell. I also got a good deal of staring applied to me. I can never figure it out but in Sweden, staring is acceptable as an activity. The phrase “you lookin’ at me” would be well wasted here because if you are in anyway outside the normal run of the mill you get stared at. Wheeling a large yellow suitcase on a Tuesday afternoon on a commuter train is abnormal, hence staring. Speaking English on the cellphone, abnormal more focused staring. Staring back irrelevant. Now if I had been speaking Serbo-croat, almost guaranteed no reaction. As the Americans say “go figure”.
The smell of perfume, cigarettes smoke, car exhaust fumes, fried fast food and a million other smells that have been absent on the ship now reappear to be registered up inside the brain like a test of remember that smell. I sat beside a lady on the train she gave off a soapy smell mixed with toffee, the soap smell was fairly easy to understand, the toffee was less easy, until I noticed her surreptitiously scoffing down sweets that appeared from under the cuff of her jacket sleeve at intervals not exceeding 5 minutes.
The train condutor punches two holes in the ticket in Sweden, to be sure, to be sure? I would say that the conductors at CIE would be most displeased if they had to do the same, it would be double the work.
If you want to avoid being stared at here in Sweden, carry a bunch of Big Issue magazines, guaranteed to get rid of people. Great to be home again.
I found an art gallery of graffiti on the Thames flood barrier near our jetty at West Thurrock, would have taken more shots only time was limited, ship sailing times to be kept.
There were a few lads creating art also, I did not take any photos of them as they looked fairly fierce, with shopping trolleys full of paint cans, spray tins and rollers and brushes. It was a graffiti expedition.
On the same cycle tour I found the chapel used in the film Four weddings and a Funeral although in the film it looks like it is some idyllic setting in the English countryside, in reality it is dwarfed by a huge detergent factory so it smells like soap everywhere, nearly so much that you spit suds, I moved away fast back to the foul sewer smell of the Thames at low tide.
Then back to the familiar smell of gasoline on the ship, aahhh deep breath.
The only thing vaguely Irish from my bridge view is the final addition to the Union Jack that is fluttering merrily in the breeze here in London, namely St Patricks cross (inserted after the act of Union 1801), which is a red X on a white background, and not a lot of people know that.
The good residents of Dublin are known as Jackeens because of their fervent waving of Union Jacks on the visit of Queen Victoria to Dublin, who by all accounts was popular there at the time. I don’t think that the flag waving Dubliners today will have the same bit of cloth on the end of their flag sticks.
I read on the net somewhere about the historic visit recently to 10 Downing St. of Gerry Adams and Sinn Fein, unofficially and in the pre-meeting banter one of the Sinn Fein entourage in a reference to the historic surroundings reportedly said “so this is where all the trouble started” a 10 Downing St. official asked if it was a reference to the 1991 mortar attack by the IRA, only to be told that the trouble started with the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty in 1921.
I suppose you could argue that the trouble started a bit earlier with the Baginbun landing in 1169 of the Normans and everything they brought with them, or you could say it was after the Treaty of Limerick in 1691 when the Jacobite army was disbanded and fled to France, but wherever it is supposed to have started it won’t begin to be finished until the Unionist brethren get their fingers out and accept for once and for all that they have to share Norn Iron whether they like it or not.
The irony of the whole affair is that the majority of the population of the UK don’t give a blind fiddlers feck about Norn Iron or of its loyal subjects, they couldn’t give a toss if it sank out in the Atlanic, the UK has bigger problems with a war in Iraq and dodgy political leaders, and home grown muslim terrorism.
The only people who care most about Ireland are the Irish, so brothers orange in the North, happy St. Patricks Day from the current capital city of your province, whose days are surely numbered.
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