Chapter Eight
Fire Brigade: Mischief to Management
Back at the Firehouse, on Friday nights especially, we used to hang out of the upstairs windows spotting the drunken talent passing by. Couples stopping in doorways for a snog or something else usually ended up extremely exposed as we lit them up with our searchlights. We also used to heat coins up on a gas ring and when we witnessed unfortunates running to catch a last bus, we would release these coins into the street below and often the runner would be stopped in their tracks by the sound of their potential bus fare falling from their pocket. Maybe they would miss the bus or perhaps they would burn their hands on the super-heated coins when attempting to retrieve them. Other favourites that you had to watch out for were missing fire boots, maybe one or both, or maybe just filled with water or shit; smelly socks hidden in your pillow; and, for unpopular officers, everyone would poke their fingers up their arses prior to dinner and then liberally smear these same fingers on the unsuspecting individuals fork prongs. Lazy bastards who went to the toilet when work was to be done often found toilet seats liberally coated in linseed oil and black boot polish.
All of this hilarity was to stop because, from out of the blue, I was promoted to a junior officer rank and sent to a different station. The big difference now was that I would be in charge of any situation to which we were sent. As a fireman, I was always critical of the officer in charge. We all thought that we knew better. We were often floating in water like lumberjacks on logs on some Canadian river, and still the officer in charge would not be confident that the fire was out and we could now return to station. The cardinal sin was considered to be a recall to the same incident. It was all different now because I was the one who would ‘carry the can’ if anything went wrong. More important to me would be the embarrassing damage to my reputation.
So, my first test was to be when I responded to my first call as officer in charge of an appliance (fire engine). But this was to be no fire. The call was to be to an international research and development premises, and the problem was that a laser beam on a stand had fallen over and everyone had exited the building due to the fact that the laser beam was passing through four floors.
I love all matters technical and I had enjoyed reading all about radioactive materials, their risks and how to handle them. Not many people in the service had this kind of knowledge at that time. This knowledge stood me in very good stead in dealing with the situation in conjunction with the scientists at the premises. They began testing my knowledge and were obviously extremely surprised that I knew what Bremsstrahlung (German for deceleration radiation) was all about. This may have improved their image of the Fire Service and proved that we were not just a gang of water squirters.
A short while later, I was to face a demanding challenge. I was detached to another station which looked after shipping risks and I was called to a fishing port where a fisherman was trapped by a crane that had toppled over. The problem was where this incident had occurred. It was on a sandy bank and the tide was coming in rapidly. In those days we were not blessed with very much rescue equipment. We would attend road traffic accident collisions with only a basic tool kit consisting of pliers, a hammer and screwdrivers, a crowbar and a reciprocating saw operated via a compressed air cylinder. We tried very hard to release this chap, who was very distressed (some patients are better than others). I calculated that in less than fifteen minutes this guy’s face would be submerged. I considered that we would be able to fit some breathing apparatus on him to extend his survival time, but really it was ‘head scratching’ time as to how we were going to release him without some heavy lifting equipment that would never arrive in time. So, if he was to survive it was down to us.
I had this eureka moment and ordered someone to fetch me a large axe which we carried. “What do you want that for?” someone asked. “Well,” I said, “if we can’t get him out in one piece, he will have to lose a leg.” “But you can’t do that,” came the reply. “Far better that he is alive minus part of a leg, then dead and intact.” This injected a lot of much needed action into the situation. I told the crew that they had time for one last try to release the man otherwise I was going to have to swing the axe. We had words with the casualty and told him of the situation and that he would have to help us, otherwise amputation was our only option. One last effort, not least on behalf of the trapped man, and we got him out with only comparatively minor leg injuries. What a relief – I really didn’t want to carry out my threat, but I would have done: I was ready for it.
You can imagine the rumours that went around after that incident and firemen are the absolute best at making up nick-names, particularly cruel ones. One poor guy with a spotted face was dubbed –Pizza Face. The Amputator, and Frankie The Surgeon (after a boxer whose style was to gradually take people apart) were the two main ones being generated on my behalf, apart from being mad. I ask you what would you have done in those circumstances? Only two choices.
No comments came from any senior officers, but this incident obviously marked me out as being a bit different. Maybe this caused my new posting, which was to a station which had a very bad reputation as being unmanageable. I was informed that morale was very poor at this station, missing out the major issues such as refusal to take orders, absenteeism and many other unwanted qualities.
When I arrived at this new shit hole, the station officer was on long-term sick leave, and, shortly after my arrival, the sub officer went on the sick. I found myself immediately acting up. Morale was very low at this station and because of staff shortages, the chances of getting a shift off were virtually impossible which encouraged the habit of individuals reporting sick. I tried repeatedly to change the situation with headquarters, but no-one wanted anything to do with my problems and nobody wanted to serve at this station. The message that I got was, “It’s your problem, you sort it out.” The general standard of firemanship at the station was very low, not helped by the fact that very little training was carried out. They did not take too kindly to my new training regime and sickness levels increased. I identified the Station ‘mouthpiece’ and lured him to the rear of the drill tower. I grabbed him by his collar and lifted him off the ground and said to him: “How would you like to pick your teeth up with a broken arm? Because that is what will happen next time you disobey one of my orders – I will take it personally.”
I then went on to state that none of us was enjoying coming to work and things were not going to get any better unless changes were made. All I wanted was for the job to be done professionally, and if that was done, I was willing to make concessions. For example, instead of having to wash the fire engines after every turnout (which could be three or four times every night), I would accept washing them once just before we went off duty. “Now put that to your pals and see what they say,” I put forward to the troublemaker. On returning back into the station, I heard one of the firemen asking his colleague what I had said: “Oh, he explained things to me very succinctly,” he said. Things began to improve steadily.
One of the underlying problems with this station was that every fireman had another—mostly tax-free—job on his day off and coming to work for the Fire Brigade was an inconvenience. They were angry when their nights of sleep were disturbed by fire calls. What was needed was a massive cultural change. Some firemen did ‘diamond polishing’ (window cleaning), painting and decorating, taxi driving, repairing and painting cars, game keepers, working for funeral directors in various roles (one was nick-named Rigour, short for Rigour-mortise), electrical contractors and even builders on each shift which kept the job going every day. They built housing estates and factories. One repaired televisions and his nickname was Smelly-vision. One very nice little fellow used to carry out plumbing jobs very unsuccessfully and he was known as Harry the Leak; if it wasn’t leaking when he got there, it surely was by the time he left. There were many other trades and pastimes represented and, of course, I kept my rather unusual pastime a secret.
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sp; A real character returned to work after his annual leave. He was known as the Beastie. He made the cartoon character Desperate Dan look very feminine indeed. He had hair like steel wool, designer stubble and a great big girth. Orange socks and an orange t-shirt was glowing from beneath his uniform. All this was complimented by battered, brown suede Hush Puppies shoes instead of the regimental issued black. Everyone was afraid of him and moved aside when he came in their direction. He did not speak normally, but instead he growled and rumbled. He did not do any work, but pointed and moaned, and the nearest fireman complied with his every request. In addition, he was also always scheduled as driver, which ensured that he did less work at fires. He had a totally different status to all of the other firemen and I thought to myself that he was the best unpaid leading fireman that I had ever seen. Instead of the expected conflict, we shook hands and had a long chat; I could surely use him to my advantage. He was a really humorous individual, a real one-off. The trouble was that he consumed a lot of alcohol and he ate a lot of food only fit for animals. He would bring in sacks of crows (still alive), dog foxes (dead), and any other road-kill he came across on his way to work. The kitchen would really stink when he made his infamous stews. When he farted in the television lounge, that was it – everyone evacuated for a considerable length of time. Many TV programmes were missed, except by him.
He would suggest to me what premises we should visit (these visits were carried out to familiarise ourselves with the layout of the building, exits and any particular hazards, access and egress and water supplies etc.) His suggestions were based upon the opportunities of ‘freebies’, particularly from pie factories. I decided to use his suggestions as a way of smartening him up. We would drive to the pie factory and when we got there I would inform him that he would have to sit in the fire engine and listen to the vehicle radio in case we received an emergency call. He was furious. I explained that we could not allow him to represent the service by coming into contact with people looking like a bag of shite. If he wanted to play a role then he would have to smarten himself up. On returning to the fire station, we had a further discussion, which ended up with me ringing the stores department to inform them that I was sending a fireman down for uniform replacement items. This necessitated paperwork (in triplicate) to accompany him. After about an hour, I received a telephone call from the stores officer. Any uniform items for replacement had to be accompanied by the worn-out item and then only on an annual basis. The stores officer’s argument was that not all items would be issued as the used ones were not available for handing in, plus, in respect of shoes, he had handed in a size 8 left and a size 9 right, which the fireman had obviously nicked from the discarded shoe container destined for the refuse tip. He said that the only items of equipment that this fireman did not complain about were his pillow case and his blankets as they seemed to fit. I then got into a long argument with the stores officer over his inflexible attitude. Now the term stores indicates that the department is for storing things, whereas I wanted the department known as ‘issues’, which implies that you may have some sort of chance in having items ISSUED. This argument reached the ears of the Chief Officer, and a consequential visit from him to our station accompanied by his senior staff officer was the result.
All personnel had to line up and be inspected by the Chief and he was astonished by the appearance of the Beastie. He looked him up and down from his battered cap, down past his protruding orange T-shirt, his jacket and trousers both overdue an oil change, down past his orange socks to his battered brown suede Hush Puppies. “What the hell have you got on your feet Fireman?” the Chief exclaimed. “Them’s me hush puppies,” he replies. “What bloody colour are they?” demanded the Chief. “Broon.” came the response. “What colour should they be?” came the enquiry. “Broon – they’ve always been broon.” By now the Chief’s neck was going bright red and the veins were starting to bulge, whilst everyone else in the line-up were struggling to maintain a straight face. “I’ll see you in the office sub-officer,” he huffed and turned to makes his way as quickly as possible, followed by his lap-dog and me. The rest of the parade are now able to rapidly expel the pressure which had built up behind their teeth.
A heated debate ensued: “That man is a disgrace!” I interrupt and inform the Chief that that is precisely why I had sent him down to stores. I questioned how he had been allowed to deteriorate into that state before I had been posted to that station. I was just beginning to win the argument when I went that little bit further and asked why a chief officer was becoming involved in such trivial matter. He turned and said, “Good morning sub officer.” and left, obviously displeased. That little incident actually helped to gel the men of the watch together. The incident probably eliminated me from any further promotion for a while.
I continued there for a further four years. Life was really comfortable. After a while I had the watch trained up to a good standard and we had no trouble at all. I was making additional money every day off, having my car washed and repaired and my meals made – all by the lads. I would occasionally give them the day off and return the favours just to show my appreciation. As this station was less busy than others, I was able to study during my spare hours and obtained every job-related qualification that I could get. I attended as many courses as I could at the Fire Service College, which gave you the opportunity to compare yourself against your peers from other parts of the country and, indeed, the rest of the world. This really stimulated me to try and become the best at what had now become my chosen vocation, and besides I had now paid too much into the pension scheme to consider leaving.
Chapter Nine
Back To the Smoke
A few years had passed since my loyalty test with the London mob, and so, one morning, I was picked up by a taxi as usual at the end of my shift and was whisked off to the railway station to catch a train to London for my two days off, sometimes four, where I carried out my pugilistic duties. I also had progressed to doing a bit of ‘minding’ and other tasks which I cannot mention. I had become associated with two very well-known infamous gangs. The money was flowing in.
On one particular London trip, I went straight to the gym and had a really good workout. I stayed in the ring whilst my opponents kept changing. They ranged from middleweights who were particularly quick, through to cruiserweights, and onto a range of heavyweights who considered themselves to be heavy punchers. I was becoming really confident and I just became quicker and quicker. I felt really good and I went into a local hoodlum’s pub to sink a few last pints before closing time. When I entered the bar, I thought that I heard someone say, “That’s one of those thick Geordies from up north.” I went over to the area that I thought the remark had come from and asked whoever mumbled something to repeat themselves. Silence prevailed. I was approached by this burly Irishman, who said that he had heard about me, and he began talking without taking any breaths. Behind his constant gibbering, I thought that I heard someone else make a remark about thick Geordies. Again, I moved around the bar to enquire if anyone was man enough to repeat any remarks about Geordies. This Irishman stated that he thought that Geordies were the absolutely best people who were noted for their sense of humour and friendliness and hospitality. As it was now closing time, I said that I would have to go and find an hotel. “I will not hear of it,” the Irishman said, “you must come and stay with me.” He was very drunk and very insistent. “Just one problem, though, you will have to share a room with the little girl.” “Oh, no,” I said, “the sofa will do fine.” The next morning, I was awoken by the shapeliest young woman that you have ever seen opening the curtains. “Who are you?” I asked. “I’m the little girl, who are you?” came the response. “I’m one of those thick Geordies from up north.” I said. This story is very nearly true.
What was true is when I was in London, I used to do a bit of minding. Often, I had to oversee the safe return home of one or two ‘molls’. One of these molls was apparently a very well-known model. She was very
tall, well over six foot, with 42-inch legs. She was extremely good looking, but not that shapely. However, she had the reputation of being a nymphomaniac. One early morning when I was delivering her home, she asked me in for a drink. I hesitated and she said that no-one would ever know. I thought why not go and road test it. This I did. She was absolutely insatiable. She wore suspenders and stockings throughout with crotchless knickers and a bra with holes for the nipples to protrude through. She screamed and shouted a lot. When poor little willie had been sick, she was straight at him trying to violently shake him into action again. She became extremely aggressive and started scratching my back with her long nails. A gentle ‘Glasgow kiss’ failed to discourage her and I had to give her a sock on the jaw to stop her. Our little secret would be out if the scratches were seen when I was in the ring. Luckily, I was off home later that morning which gave me time to heal.
Secret Squirrel Page 6